Kaleidescope
by TheMortalShadows
Summary: Just a drabble compilation of characters from my RP, :)
1. Chapter 1

**I was going to make another OC story, but then I decided that "ehh. I want to do something different." So what I did was take the characters from the RP I'm in and make some drabbles of moments or scenes that I wanted to capture them in. Not all of them happened in the RP but I just wanted to capture the character and emotion of them. I think I failed though. There are only like...two that I like.**

 **Some of these are in different styles so you'll see a few sections that change style and stuff.**

 **But I hope you enjoy. :)**

 **Jillessa Heronstair's Characters: Aria, Alex, Clarisse, Emily, Isadora**

 **SilverJem5's Characters: Mason, Steff, Layla, Caspian**

 **My Characters: Cole, Daemon, Aspen, Parker**

 **~~Aria and Alex~~**

She was never a fan of coffee.

So she had gotten tea instead but even then had she recoiled at the bitterness and pursed her lips like she was unhappy. Aria wasn't picky- at least not in the way her brother was, though he often forgot what he liked and disliked- so she decided to drink it anyway. Everything tasted bland over a stack of papers and the smell of ink hanging in the air like thick smog. She had grown used to it though.

And aside she set her mug and picked up her pen to fill in more lines. She scribbled across the paper hurriedly- neatly of course- and ignored the whines of her dogs as they scratched at the door. The air conditioner hummed. It was freezing. Her brother had come in to ask where his stele went and she shrugged, looking back and giving him a kind look. She was always kind. It was difficult not to be when everyone else was looking and judging. It wasn't that she minded but it was tiresome.

Alex sat down on the floor of her room and played with the dogs.

He laughed and said that they were little and were extraordinarily smart.

Aria had remembered a time when she had been little but never a time when she had been revered as 'extraordinarily smart'.

Because on paper, she knew, it was hard to see how people coped and no matter how much tears and blood she put into writing a piece or believed in a name or imagined in sentences of ink, no one would ever listen. And that in the end, it was only ever people who were able to inspire.

And that they were the ones with a voice that mimicked the words on paper.

But that wasn't her style.

So she smiled again at Alex and went back to the papers.

Writing.

Signing.

And when she was finally finished, her tea was still hot.

 **~~Mason~~**

Books, Mason decided, were only useful if they had factual content.

There was some craze about fictional stories that caught him in confusion, as they offered no advice but how to ruin your life. They told of heroes and people who acted unbreakable on the outside, but were weak on the inside and crumpled just as easily. They told of those who hid from their real selves by putting on a visage. They told of people who were merely human. Humans were unpredictable. And breakable.

He hardly understood them.

That's why he liked facts and things that were permanent. Things that wouldn't change.

People around him had this unending belief that everyone- including him- had secrets on how they really were. The type of secrets that would make people say "I'm fine," when they really wanted to say, "I'm not okay." He couldn't relate. Not when guilt wasn't in his vocabulary and not when he said "I'm fine. Go away," and he meant it. Not when the face he showed reflected his real self and he was the same inside and out. And even though he was a master of characters, his true self would always come through.

But unlike the characters in books, he wasn't broken.

The cliche villain with the angst filled past.

He laughed at the idea and kept training like a machine with an infinite line of coding.

Repeating the process until he felt as if he were accomplished.

Caught in gears that never ceased to turn.

 **~~Steff and Cole~~**

He wasn't mad.

She wasn't scared.

But they didn't dare move or say a word. He stared at the window past her and she held her hand on her braid as if she were comforted by it. He blinked once and she swallowed, the tension in the room rising by the minute. The room was too cold, goosebumps on her arms and his throat felt dry. Nothing in the room seemed real and they just continued to stare. It was uncomfortable. But they were silent and they didn't move.

She wasn't sure if she had said something wrong but he had stopped talking and, in turn, she had followed. He had been angry a minute before but she wouldn't address it. Not when the air seemed to hang in a heavy silence and the voices from outside the room had somehow faded into the distance until they were so soft, she thought she was imagining them.

He held his breath. He looked up slightly, but only with his eyes, following the lines in the fading room. He was sitting stiffly in his chair and didn't know what to say, for he didn't know what to say next. Time had frozen and they were left staring.

Just staring.

He wasn't sure what he felt but he knew he wasn't angry.

Maybe annoyed.

He remained expressionless and so did she. For a moment they caught each others glances and they looked like posing marble figures, almost still like a realistic scene filled with people who weren't capable of sentient feelings. She felt cold- empty almost- at the silence. And the world was somehow gone and all there was left was a tangible nothing that separated sound from reason.

And only when they heard receding footsteps from down the hall did they realize they had gone temporarily deaf.

 **~~Clarisse~~**

For all Clarisse cared, she was immortal.

It had been hard to stop caring about her past but it had been easy to forget.

And so she picked a flower and twirled it in her fingertips.

She didn't know why she liked them so much.

But that thought was fleeting and she suddenly wished to remember her past. It was hard to love the flowers when everything was so mirk and dark and foggy. She laughed lightly and picked another flower. Clarisse hadn't a clue what brought it upon her but she wanted to be different. So she picked up her flowers, slung her bow over her shoulder, and danced away.

Fleetingly,

Into the trees,

She vowed to be,

Changed.

 **~~Daemon~~**

Something was missing.

Daemon could feel it.

And he set his hand on the doorknob three times before backing up and looking up at the ceiling. He tapped his right foot, but never his left. Running a hand through his hair, he took a sigh and backed up again, glancing at his desk. It was still missing. He wasn't sure what he was missing but it felt like the world had suddenly been shaken from it's axis and it felt wrong. All wrong and he started to worry.

He started running his hand over everything in his room, hoping something would spark a memory. Touching each drawer in order, he started to look around frantically. Something was gone. Something...Something...And so he went over to his bed and looked at the bookshelf, opening every book except the fifth one. He never opened the fifth one.

He just...couldn't.

And he never touched the top of the bookshelf without his glove on and he could never look under the bed without unlocking his phone and then locking it again two times. The world was going to die. It felt like it was about to collapse and his head was filled with all these thoughts like a computer that a child had pressed too many buttons at once. But it was still missing. And so he tried to think about everything that he could have possibly forgotten about, but around all the commands and thoughts running through his head, everything was empty. Empty. Empty.

He said it out loud, three times, each time getting quieter. He didn't know why he said it like that but it just felt right.

And he clenched his hands into fists and dug his nails in palms.

So he paced the room from his desk to his bed. He never stepped on the cord running from his desk to the outlet. When he was like this, he just couldn't. And he brought his hands to his face and kept walking.

Something was missing.

Something was missing.

Something was missing.

He took a strangled breath and kicked the wall suddenly in frustration. It was a light kick but he looked down to make sure he hadn't broken anything.

On the floor was a book that had fallen.

He stooped down, picking it up and ran his hand over the cover before putting it into the third shelf on the far right of the bookshelf where it had been empty. Then he tapped it twice and stepped back. The world had straightened again and he collapsed on his bed in relief.

He felt ridiculous.

But everything was normal again.

 **~~Layla~~**

She had protested at first.

People like him sickened her.

She had told him to shut up.

But he hadn't listened.

The first thing she had learned when she first became a werewolf was to hide her...unique ability from mundanes like it was something to be ashamed of. The second was that she had to control her temper. Layla never found herself with much of a temper but certain things ticked her off and she found herself stuck between an angry insult or walking away. At the moment, the former sounded the most enticing.

Trying to control her anger at the utterly _vulgar_ mundane that kept talking about how girls were only good for easy jobs and for being easy, she opened her mouth to deliver a counter filled with her own very opinionated quotes, but instead found herself snapping and growling, tatters of clothes ringed around her. She had tried, really, to control the Change but it always seemed to have more of a say than she did. So she growled furiously at the mundane, who looked astonished, before running off and back to the Institute with reluctance, but mostly guilt at Changing in front of a mundane.

But then again, not really.

If there was one thing she really hated, it was the stereotyping and undermining of women. He deserved to know that she could kick ass just as good as every other guy out there, but she wasn't the fighting type. Not physical, anyway, as she didn't want to get into too much trouble with the Clave or have a sour reputation.

Not like all the people at the Institute who were like that.

She just wanted to be different.

And make a difference.

But unrealistic goals weren't expected from her by most and were disregarded by all, no matter how loud she spoke or who she spoke to.

And though she spoke of her own independence from stereotypes, everyone said that gags were made for women for a reason.

And it made her sick.

 **~~Emily~~**

It had been all wrong.

Wrong.

And yet right.

And...

Once again Emily had confused herself. So she tightened her jacket around her shook her head against the wind. The streets didn't always seem so empty and cold but she found herself struggling against the chill and the emptiness that settled inside her like a hollow rock. At first, she tried to think why her relationships hadn't worked out ever once she had gone to the Institute- and before- and then a frightening thought filled her head and she wondered if it was her that was the problem.

The thought of her interests also filled her mind.

Quinn wasn't necessarily nice all the time, and certainly wasn't always truthful. So she wondered why she liked him. She wasn't sure if she liked him like that or was just confused. And then it became obvious why it hadn't worked between them.

He was a replacement.

 _Replacement for Khoi?_ The thought had echoed within her and she had tried to push it back, but it was clear that it was nearly true. They were similar, Khoi and Quinn, but she had never stopped thinking about the one who really seemed to care, even though she knew he didn't. She couldn't stop thinking about how he had been the one to teach her everything that she treasured and to teach her that she was actually special. He was the one who first said she was different and that he quirks weren't her flaws but her highlights. And the one who had done that for her certainly wasn't Quinn.

But he had cheated and lost her trust.

Over and over again, the same cycle repeated.

So she had replaced him with a duplicate.

But it was never the same and he was never special. Never special and never made her feel special like Khoi did. So she walked away from it and told herself she didn't need him. Either of them. And that she was better than them and that was what she truly believed.

Kind of.

 **~~aspen and _Caspian_ ~~**

he was interesting:

cold, boring, warm, interesting. he was pure and yet not. and new playthings interested him.

 _He was annoying._

 _Touchy and all smug. He would act like he would everything when he was being stupid. He didn't know why he listened to him in the first place because he was all weird and...well, like a faerie. And he hated faeries like him._

he had been a jerk, he admitted, to the newcomer. he never liked girls with blonde hair but caspian wasn't a girl. not that he knew for sure...but he had decided to make him his knew favourite for a few months.

 _Extra attention from a stupid thing like Aspen was unnerving. He was nosy and stupid and smart and completely ridiculous at the same time. And he never failed to make an ordinary situation uncomfortable._

he wanted the darkness.

craved it like a drug.

and he wanted others to taste it to.

he wondered if that was the reason he wanted to recruit so many people. because then maybe they could relate.

 _He wanted to fit in._

 _His back hurt._

 _Scars._

 _They showed sometimes in his dreams and he wondered if he was mocked for it._

 _He envied others._

he hid in the darkness.

 _He didn't know if the Hunt was a fix._

ignorance in the darkness fixed everything.

 _Darkness, he learned, was comforting._

 **~~Isadora~~**

Water.

Tides of it sloshing at her feet as she stepped into the sand.

She wondered what Xavier was doing and she dreamed that he was out, convincing people to join his cause. He was a leader like that. And she looked up to him, hoping he was everything he seemed to be. But she also feared that she wasn't good enough for him.

So she dreamed of a world where she was perfect enough for everyone even though her dreams were bittersweet.

They were perfect in their own way.

She smiled at the water and dipped a foot into it and quickly pulled back with a laugh.

It was cold. Cold like ice but she felt the warmth of the sun on her face. She imagined it like it was a sunset over perfectly blue waters. She had always been a dreamer. And so she fought the cold and stepped into the tides again. Looking out into the distance, she squinted to separate the colours of the blues, pinks, and oranges of the sky and she smiled, dreaming of sailboats.

Sometimes her dreams were simple.

 **~~Parker~~**

Two hundred years.

Fifteen weeks.

Four days.

Ten hours.

Five minutes.

There would be a person who died.

They would be married for the first time. He would look in his early twenties though he was far beyond that. His wife wouldn't be with him, but she would be smart. Smart like the person he would first fall in love with but he had never gotten the chance to take it further beyond friendship and a test of a date. He wouldn't want to outlive her and watch her die as he lived on. So he would wait until right before his clock wound down to fall for someone, even if it meant breaking his own heart.

But he would find someone. They wouldn't be the same as the first person he found, but she was kind. They would travel to a lake with their adopted family. He would be on the pier, still looking like a teenager. He would hang his legs off the side of the wooden slates and look up at the sky and sigh in contentment.

But then the sky would change and there would be someone waiting. A faerie that he had wronged and they would be holding a knife.

He would try to talk.

Then he would run.

And then he would die.

They both would.

But that would only happen in two hundred years, fifteen weeks, four days, ten hours, and four minutes.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

His timer kept counting and he dreaded the day he would die. If there was anything he didn't want, it would be to see when and where he would die but it was his power and he could hardly suppress it. Sometimes it hurt a little. And sometimes he wondered if he could change it. But he didn't want to mess with fate because this was the only way he could live to that age without killing more people on the way.

Two hundred years, fifteen weeks, four days, ten hours, and one minute.

He was scared.

 **~fin~**

 **I'll add another chapter to this sometime...**

 **Maybe.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A lot of these chapters will vary in length so this is a shorter one. But hey. I actually updated something. Haha.**

 **Jillessa Heronstair's Characters: Anthony, Clarisse**

 **SilverJem5's Characters: Percy, Leo, Caspian**

 **My Characters: Quinn, Park**

 **~~Anthony~~**

There was something in him that made worry.

Every time he would catch someone's eye and they would look away, he'd instantly put on a fake smile and hope they weren't judging him. He'd run a hand casually through his hair and hope it didn't look messy. He'd say thank you and please one too many times just to make sure he was being polite. He'd catch that person's eye again and try to see if they needed help. He wanted to be liked. Fit in. Be admired.

But he wasn't ambitious in the way that made him bad.

Just...insecure.

Wasn't everyone?

So he adopted a new mindset that he would make sure everyone liked him and that everything that he thought of would match the cleanliness and politeness of his looks. He wasn't naturally mean so it was easy, but he found himself promising things to people to make them feel better when the only promise that was true was one of deceit. He'd try to hide that too. So he'd tell people that they'd be alright and that tomorrow would make it better but he knew that it wouldn't.

But he wanted to be liked. Fit in. Be admired.

And so no matter how many times he lied, he felt steady because, for once, he was running on steady ground and he hadn't slipped. Not in a long time. He knew that he couldn't be perfect, but he wanted to be something near it. He knew he tried too hard, but he found himself judging. Judging the way he looked. Judging the way he acted. Judging the way he didn't say the right thing in the right moment.

So he kept worrying.

But he kept striving to be perfect.

He just wanted to be liked.

 **~~Quinn~~**

Twenty dollars.

That's all it cost for a beer and a hit of the opium drugs.

And then Quinn would see.

He would see the smile on people's faces and he would smile too because there was a way to escape. He didn't have a terrible childhood but the enchantment of being high was too much for him to resist. There would be light in his vision and he'd see stars. And it'd be easy to find himself with a different girl and then everything else was a blur. And he'd wake up in a different bed and see a different girl and he wondered if she had been just as plastered as he was. Because he didn't remember a thing.

In fact, he liked it that way.

And he'd repeat it every single night until he felt himself getting sick and he'd almost pass out. But he never would. And sometimes he wished he could just take enough to slip unconscious because then everything would float away. He'd float away with the drugs.

He'd spend twenty dollars for a night of fun he'd never remember.

And he knew he was scorned for it but everything seemed so fuzzy.

He didn't care that he had a reputation as long as people didn't think he was like Chris. He wasn't like him anyway and he kept enough of his sense. Mostly. And he found himself wanting to move because he had gotten bored. He wasn't one to stay in one place often and he wanted to just go.

But he didn't know if it was the drugs and alcohol making him think like that or his thuohgts getting scrambled up in his mnid on his own.

Bcsuase it wolud get hrader to think.

And it woldn't mkae sense.

So he'd repaet the same procses oevr and oevr.

Twnety dolalrs for artiiifcal hpapiness

 **~~Percy~~**

There was this untold stereotype about all warlocks.

Everyone _knew_ that they were some sort of freak and therefore, weren't to be trusted.

But if Percy had learned anything in the past sixty years, it was that warlocks had the most to lose. And thus, they wanted to trust and be trusted and they yearned for the very comfort in mortality that humans sought after. But he had resisted falling in love and getting attached because a lifetime of loss and hurt was hard. An eternity of mourning was unbearable.

So perhaps then he had finally found the reason why humans were mortal. (Being human was a gift, perhaps?)

It was the demon blood in his veins that punished him. (He argued it wasn't his fault.)

But he didn't dare cross the gap between life and death because he was afraid. (And that made _him_ the freak?) He wanted people- mortals, humans- to understand him as a person and not as some crossbreed but they would never change. Never change no matter how much magic he used to cloud the world. So he took to potions because they were a simple science. A breeding of chemicals that weren't categorized on social classes and could be influenced with a bit of science and magic.

There were points in his life where he wanted to be human.

(But not really.)

And when Shadowhunters spoke of the terrors of his kind, he felt angry.

(Scared maybe.)

And he realized that it wasn't the contrast between mortal and immortal that made others different but the content of their makeup and chemistry that made people the way they were. And suddenly it made sense. It wasn't influence from others. It wasn't society. It was science and magic. And because emotions were a category of human nature, he found that he wasn't different from them. (Things began to be simpler.)

So he went back to his potions.

And ignored anytime someone scorned him as a warlock.

Because he knew that he was very, very human.

 **~~Clarisse~~**

There was something precious about the world around her.

No matter how many times wars and winds and waters rushed and battered and battled along the surface, it always seemed to revive. Wastelands would become valleys and the victims of fires created by man and wild would always replenish. But she... She felt like a piece of paper. Clarisse felt that no matter matter how many times she folded her appearance into different shapes, no one would truly get what she was saying. And no matter how many times she tried to smooth out the creases, they would still show like gashes.

Once she had gotten her memories back, she felt unfolded... But.. she felt that she finally could understand everything.

It was scary at first.

She did enjoy the new peace she was at with herself, and even recognized an old friend, but he was different. And so was she. The Hunt, she hated to admit, changed her and wherever she went, it seemed that lingering regrets and fears of forgetting followed. And she told herself it was nothing and that the feeling would go away, but it never did. It stayed for days but... She was comforted when she thought of how her friend had tried so hard to get her to remember him. Though sometimes she reminded herself over and over that she would lose her memories again and that she would be back to the way she was before. And thus she was saddened.

Because she didn't want to forget.

Yet, at the same time... It would smooth the creases in her paper.

And she could start over.

But she put the thought off again and immersed herself in nature. She would twirl in the wind and dip her fingers in the stream and send daisies down the water as if they were little boats. And she'd watch them. They reminded her of her memories that would fade once the rune had faded from her skin and she was left with her flowers.

Nothing but her and the flowers.

She knew she would be left unsatisfied.

That finally understanding had made everything so much clearer.

But the inevitable could not be changed.

 **~~Leo~~**

There would be a very subtle gleam in his eyes every time he would be in his character.

He'd play nice.

Act nice.

Become a nicer version of himself.

And the only thing he would try to cover up would be the Lies in his thoughts and the amusement that passed over his expression. But there would always be a spark of light in his eyes. He wasn't Evil and he certainly wasn't Pure at heart. He liked a mix of both. If the Demons played dirty, the world would be Dead. If the Angels played nice, the world would grow boring.

So, rarely, he apologized for when he went too far.

And people were left hurt beyond his reason.

But he never apologized for the way his eyes never refused to stop gleaming.

 **~~Park~~**

There was a girl Park remembered out of a dream.

And he saw her fall and break her wrist when she ran across the field. It had only been a vision, but he scribbled it down in his notebook anyway. There was a boy- close to his age but not quite- who was going to be bit by a werewolf sometime in the next month. He should have told him but he never could. He had learned to record his visions in a notebook instead.

It was more difficult to refrain when it was his friend he dreamt about. Park knew he shouldn't have said anything but he couldn't help it. He just...had to. It was on a casual day in the skatepark when he had confronted the mundane he had known all his life to tell him how he was going to die. He should have expected it, but Dylan told him he was crazy. He told him he was playing some sort of sick joke. He said he didn't believe it.

But somehow, Park knew he did.

Dylan grew paranoid, avoiding planes as if they could hurt him. He knew he was going to die on a plane, thanks to Park, and when he did have to go on a plane, he was terrified. Park knew he had made a mistake, apologizing and saying he was going to make it because he could just change fate. So Dylan missed his flight and booked the next one and Park stopped having the vision of Dylan on a plane and it crashing down and the blood; the blood everywhere from the crumpled bodies.

But when Dylan tried to change his fate, Park realized it had turned for the worse.

It was 3/24/2013 when his friend went missing.

His plane had crashed down on an island and Park thought he had died.

But he got a vision of his friend two days later of the crash and he knew that telling his friend about his fate had been a mistake. The future undoubtedly, had been changed, though not by much and it made him feel sick. And after the vision, his dreams were plagued by a single sentence that seemed to echo in punishment in his thoughts.

 _And Dylan sat on the island, waiting for death._

 _And Dylan sat on the island, waiting for death._

 _And Dylan sat on the island, waiting for death._

 **~~Caspian~~**

He had forbidden himself to cry.

But he was on the verge of screaming and passing out when the faerie gang had made the first cut. He berated himself terribly for getting into the fight. He didn't think it would have ended as brutally but the Unseelie Court had no order. No loyalty to the citizen of fae who protected the very ground it stood on for it stood on battle ground and blood. And faeries turned against each other until the ground was slick and there were bodies. Mutilated people that had taken a turn for the worst, ending up with a knife in the chest or an arrow in their side.

Caspian envied them.

He had never really wished to die but it hurt like hell and it stung where they gripped his wrists and kept him still though he tried to thrash. He bit and dug his nails into their skin and kicked but nothing seemed to stop the blade from settling at the base of his wings and sawing.

The knife tore through skin, cartilage, thin bones where his shoulders ridged into wings and it kept cutting and cutting and cutting until it really _fucking_ hurt. Jagged edges lurched and he could have heard them laughing if the black wasn't pressing at his eyes and his ears. Lurching, stabbing, cutting and searing white hot pain coursed through his veins. His eyes shot open. His vision swam out of focus and tried to break out of the haze of pain and think properly but it was too much. Blood splattered the floor next to him and even his eyes hurt but he refused to cry. He wanted to, but he took shuddering gasps and prayed he would bleed out and die.

The knife cluttered next to him and they let him go, watching him fall to the ground in a heap, still in a state of shock. To avoid further humiliation, he had forced himself up in a daze, dragging himself to a nearby tree to sit under. He felt his heart beat in a throb of agony. He wished it would stop and it would all go away. But it never did and the only thing that stopped was the blood, starting to clot.

He was nothing.

In the Unseelie Court, wings were a symbol of purity and without them, he felt shamed. He focused on breathing but it hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt and he wanted it to be over. And he prayed to whatever might be listening to have mercy and kill him so he wouldn't bring shame to the Unseelie Court and his family.

But the relief never came.

And though the pain dulled slightly over time, he was different.

But he forbade himself to cry.

 _ **~fin~**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Jillessa Heronstair's Characters: Khoi, Emily, Ash, Nick**

 **SilverJem5's Characters: Mason, Steff**

 **My Characters: Daemon, Aspen**

 **~~Khoi and Emily~~**

If Khoi was familiar with anything, it was being granted a second chance.

He really didn't feel as if he did anything to be punished but Emily's stare of complete and utter astonishment of horror was enough to make him feel as if he were damned. After he would confess about his latest 'mistake', she would sob and tell him to get out and he knew he deserved every second of her berating. But he also stood confused. He didn't understand why she was hurt and all he knew was that she was, and he had suddenly become the enemy. Why was cheating a sin?

It wasn't like he liked them like he liked her, but it was like she took every single god damn thing to heart and he wanted her to tell her to snap out of it. But she...she would give him this look as if he was a monster. And then she would soften. And he'd fall in love again, though he knew it wasn't real love and that they were just a sugar coated example. And he thought that no matter what he did, everything would be okay.

There were times, though, when things were good. She'd make him laugh and, in turn, he made her smile. Emily was ridiculous sometimes, in a good way, and she said things that made the corners of his mouth up involuntarily and he would grin. There had been a time he had asked her what he would be like if he was a girl and she had thought about it for a long time. Finally, she spoke up, saying that he would be a 'Complete weirdo player of an Asian who made good food'. He, on the other hand, found himself 'offended' and gave her a flat expression. And then, without meaning to, he had laughed and laid back on the couch, thinking about how right she was. He was a player. Mostly.

But those were the good days and they had become rare.

And then there was the complication of Emily.

Emily trusted him. She trusted him more than she wanted because she always had a weakness for a good looking face and charm. Khoi was everything she imagined and more. And she liked him. And she reckoned he would like her if he knew he was like her. And he did. He was smart. Hot. Funny.

But trustworthy? That was questionable.

She had forgiven him every time he had cheated even if she knew she shouldn't have. Because he would keep using her. But when he would say that he wanted her back, it truly, truly sounded like he meant it.

And he did.

He just found himself lacking the control. The self control to keep his eyes averted and his hands to himself. But even so, he was her weakness and she kept dishing out second chances.

Second chances to her heart.

 **~~Mason~~**

Mason found that he disliked a great many things.

He disliked it when people slacked. He disliked it when people annoyed him. He disliked it when ichor would sting his hands and when Church got into the weapons cabinets and when he wasn't the absolute top of everyone. He disliked it when he wasn't respected.

Now, he hated Downworlders.

They were rude and slippery and liars and all the things that he disliked in one. Though people had said they weren't all like that, he knew they were just blind. After all, he knew that he was the most qualified, the smartest, and the only person who could simply do his job. Everyone else had all these feelings in the way of their work and he thought they were ridiculous. He didn't understand why everyone always was so personal about everything.

He didn't mind killing.

He would prefer not to, but rogue vampires and wolves deserved to die just as much as the demons that roamed the streets. His knife grew to be his best friend, and his only one, and it was practical. More practical than a hunting partner because it wouldn't hesitate at the last moment and was certain. He hated the type of people that hesitated. It showed people were unsure. Unprepared.

People called him heartless.

He knew they thought he was cruel.

But he knew he was like them. Only better. Because he didn't sympathize with anything and knew what his duties were. Many people disliked him, but his hatred for the impurity of the world was more than enough for him to overcome it.

There was a common misunderstanding between hate and dislike.

 **~~Daemon~~**

He had never been anything special.

Always quiet and content with his life, Daemon kept his mouth shut and preferred to read rather than converse with people in his neighborhood. Besides, living in Larissa- a Greek city- any business of his that he brought up would become the business of the world and that was the last thing he wanted. In fact, he didn't want to be noticed in fear that he would say something wrong or do something that he shouldn't.

So he lived his life in suppressive silence.

He didn't mind, though.

He was entertained- or rather entranced- by the passing figures by his window. He would see people with wings and pointed ears. He would see wolves running along the length of the night and people with three eyes, cat ears, and hooves like horses. At first he thought he was going crazy, and then he remembered he lived in Greece, He was used to all the religious and weirdo rumours circulating around so he assumed it was the lore and mythology getting to his head. Also, no matter how much sleep he got, he was always tired and would daydream; another answer to his 'hallucinations'.

It wasn't until later that he realized they were real.

Faeries, warlocks, vampires, werewolves: the whole grand slam.

He thought his supposed 'biological father' was crazy. His father talked about something called 'the Sight' and 'Shadowhunters'. Damon talked about a local therapist who had space for more patients. He knew he was adopted but when his 'biological' father came to him, rambling about how his mother was part Siren, Daemon started to worry. He _had_ looked different from all the kids his age but...he never thought about it. Nor did he think much of the creatures that roamed the streets.

So he took to covering up, resorting to dark jeans, dark shoes, a dark jacket, dark shirts, and dark gloves and growing his hair out just slightly so it brushed his forehead and served to cover the odd shape of his eyes. He just didn't want to _look_ wrong and like something weird. He didn't care if people saw his outfit but there was something about the way people stared at him and into his eyes and he saw them judging.

So he covered everything that said 'Daemon' up with his self consciousness.

He didn't want to stand out.

He didn't even want to be special.

 **~~Ash and Nick~~**

Ash had been beautiful.

Not that she wasn't always beautiful at every moment over everyday but the way her hair was pulled back and wrapped around a bun, curling pieces draped down to the middle of her back, and the veil shielding her face from him made his heart stop for a long moment. The dress, hugging her tight and fluffing out at her waist was gorgeous but he wasn't looking at her dress; simply at her.

It had taken him so long to get her back.

After getting drugged to sleep with the faerie, Nick felt as if she had lost her.

She had broken up with him first, slapped him, and left him broken. In rage, she had even tried to kill him. But she didn't- partly thanks to his best man- and he was overwhelmed at the fact that she agreed to marry him after they made up and smoothed over the misunderstandings.

Their relationship had never been a fluffy one, though from the way it was described, it sounded like something out of a soap opera. To everyone, they were simply the crazy couple that had a hard time being in the same room together. And to everyone, he was simply the lovesick guy after the girl that wouldn't give him time. And to everyone, she was the slut who slept with everyone in her grief. But to him and to Ash, they were simply two people who just...fit. And even though there had been a time when things weren't looking bright and they were left separated, it didn't matter.

The wedding had been a simple one. Everyone from the Institute was invited and they held it in the expanse of the backyard, decorating with flowers and cloths and ribbons they had gotten from some mundane store.

But the decor didn't matter.

Because things finally worked out.

And they were finally together.

(With a baby) - They would laugh about the surprise later.

But for once in a long while, things were actually looking up.

 **~~Aspen~~**

There was something empty and cold and dark that seemed to settle in him like a parasite.

So he looked for compromise.

He grew accustomed to using people for a temporary relief from the emptiness. So he would distract himself with a game of the Wild Hunt and take to playing with them and toying with them at his dispense. They all drew away from him at first but he always convinced them. Always. Or at least he had never once met anyone that he didn't get his way with.

Beyond hissed breaths of air and slick skin beneath his fingertips, he'd pull them close and pretend that he actually liked them. That he wanted them for something more than a plaything to satisfy his amusement. And they'd all believe him and he loved to drive them mad. Mad with anger when he'd hurt them and push them away. Mad with desperation when he'd offer things with his eyes that he didn't dare speak aloud. Mad with lust as he manipulated them in all the right ways until they would succumb to his raunchy attitude and look up with hooded eyes at his smug, smug expression.

But they had all been easy.

What he really liked were the faeries that took time to coax.

The ones that weren't already halfway mad like he was.

Aspen was confident. He always had been. Regarding faeries as the perfect race, he had grown to see himself as perfect. Tall, slim, and dangerous, he was lethal. And pure, with shimmering, translucent, black wings that were lined with silver, he knew that he was a pedigree fighter. He won his fights, spilling blood around him like a halo and he was an avenging angel. People were sickened by it and his carelessness for the life and health of others. But he...He regarded violence and despair as a dance. A lovely dance that he took part in, using knives, bows and swords to win and be remembered.

He liked evaluating people. And then approaching them. He always had a snide attitude slapped on his face and a dark glint in his eyes that rendered him untouchable. Aspen liked to act dumb and all fluffy and flamboyant, making people trust him. They would pass him off as something to ignore and anything but a threat. That was the way he liked he.

He also liked playing the mysterious, dark character. More so than the former. He'd be mean, then nice, then mean, then nice again. And always flirtatious. And for a few months that the person grew to him and flocked to him, he didn't feel so empty. He felt admired, feared, and respected, though he wasn't sure what was better.

But by the end of his sessions, when he would break them.

Taunt them.

Hurt them.

He realized everything was empty again.

And reveled in the dark.

 **~~Steff~~**

From the time she was cursed till the time she had arrived at the New York Institute, Steff knew not to play with fire.

But no matter how much she tried to avoid stoking the flame, her brother would push her back down and she would find herself burned. Sometimes, it would be in a literal sense and he'd order her, as he had once, to take a hot pan and press her hand against it until there were tears running down her face and she would be submissive and respectful. Just as he liked her to be. And sometimes it would be in the emotional sense when she found her feelings singed to nothing and it would hurt. Because she had no one to turn to.

And sometimes there'd be fire in her dreams and she would be scared.

She tried to be brave but every time her courage would falter and she'd find herself in a heap of tears and sweat when she woke up. And sometimes, when she dreamed of the demon that had cursed her, the flames would grow hot and she'd try to draw away but they'd keep coming and coming and coming and burning and burning until she was screaming.

Her brother would order her to shut up, oblivious as to what she was going to.

She doubted he cared anyway.

In fact, she knew he didn't.

So when she went to the Institute, she was...relieved to be away from her home. It had been fine at first, as the library had many books to choose from but she found that she used it as a refuge rather than a place to enjoy her studies. She had started to bore of the books and yearn for something more.

And then Cole had happened.

He hadn't been as bad as her brother, in a sense, but he would be manipulative and take a sick pleasure out of her pain. He would order her to do things and make sure everything was in order or else he would be angry and smug. Steff felt claustrophobic, knowing she couldn't go back to her home but not being able to leave the Institute. Cole made sure she couldn't.

Though slowly he grew more...forgiving, the flames of his anger would still burn deep into her mind and the nightmares would come back. They weren't as bad at first, but they were still there. And her demons would come back. But somehow, she managed to stand it all. In fact, she had started to become used to it. Numb to it, even. And though at times it would hurt, it reminded her of the fire.

And like a person was attracted to sin, she found herself drawn to the flames.

 _ **~fin~**_


	4. Chapter 4

**IMPORTANT! READ:**

 **So, this one is a little different. What I did is take some of our characters and put them in historical situations and tried to fit them to the mold because I didn't want my posts for this compilation of stories to become boring/redundant...so I tried something new. I hope you guys like it and I'll try to think of more ideas for my next chapter.**

 **I repeated some historical events, but I did different takes on it so I hope you guys are okay with that. :) Oh, and by the way, they're all mundane. I'm not a huge fan of how it turned out... I think it didn't come out the way I wanted... :/ But oh well.**

 **Jillessa Heronstairs's Characters: Emily, Ash, Addy**

 **SilverJem5's Characters: Percy, Layla**

 **My Characters: Cole**

 **~~Emily~~**

 _ **Trail of Tears**_

Emily was far from being Cherokee.

She enjoyed a great many luxuries: hot baths, cold drinks, light, linen clothes and imported food from Asia, as it was rare to come across. Not many of the immigrants from that area went to America, and Chinese food was harder to find than a free Native American. Almost impossible. After Andrew Jackson had become president of the 'United' States, it was clear that equality and luxury were words that could only be found in a dictionary.

So she had to give up her life of comfort when she was forced to travel to America, moving to a colony- a large town, really- to live with her cousin. But she was different from the others. Though her parents had forced her to be tough and talented, Emily found herself softened instead, taking pity and sympathy on those who were less fortunate.

Quickly, then, had she made friends with a nearby tribe of natives. They didn't speak much English, but they welcomed her and treated her better than her parents ever had. There was something about them that she admired. Perhaps it was the way they were proud and humble in their lifestyle, and so she instantly found respect in them. When she started spending more and more of her time there, she started to pick up on words. First just greetings, then sentences, as they were picking up on her 'english' too. She hadn't just found a new culture, but new friends that she visited constantly.

And then things had changed.

Having spent too much time with the Cherokee tribe, her town cast her out when President Jackson sent the natives on their long walk to find new land. So she had to go with them. But nothing had prepared her for the heat of the sun beating on her back. The smell of sickness and decay as the numbers of thousands thinned to hundreds. The pain in her chest as she breathed in the hot, dry air from the chaparral.

There were also the small, red bumps on her wrist. They had started out as a small cluster, but over the weeks, they grew. At first, all she noted was the fatigue. And then the fevers. The headaches. The blood. The headaches. The blood. The headaches. The blood. The headaches. And she'd keep walking and walking and walking and everyone would be walking past her like the dead and she hurt. But medicine was rare and they wouldn't use it on a non-Cherokee, no matter how good she was to them.

Malaria was her crime and the natives had signed her death sentence. But there was nothing left to do but move on foot in front of the other with the rest of the people.

And so she kept walking.

 **~~Percy~~**

 _ **Science in the Industrial Revolution**_

If Percy was certain about one thing, it was that he was correct.

"It has to be true," he protested, "the chemical compound of the fossil shows that the amount the-". But he had been silenced. His predecessors had been wrong, he knew, and they had no right to tell him he was faulty. If they would just listen, everything would have been better.

Growing up, Percy was always told that the demand for scientists- especially scientists that wanted to study chemistry in all sorts of things- was low. His mother had found his innocent fascination with play chemistry sets and minerals and cleaning products adorable. His father was just disappointed. His father used to sit him down and chide him that, "There is a time and place for everything. But your passion for a useless form of science will remain homeless forever." But Percy defied him, becoming a scientist, even if he wasn't a very respected one.

But in the midst of the science and discovery, he was revolutionary. The world, he decided, had been created over millions of years and that it must have evolved to the conditions it was. It was that moment that he was proud and he rushed to write his book, labeling it 'The Corrections of Time within our Time'. The editors made him change the title, but it didn't matter anyway. They never approved it.

They scorned his findings.

 _It's faulty._

 _Shelter the people._

 _Don't you believe in creationism?_

And suddenly God came into the equation and he didn't understand the factual point of the people. He couldn't measure the faith of creationism or the ideas of religion in a mathematical and scientific project

The controversies he had helped spark were 'reasons' the government shut him and his lab down. And he was angry. Angry that his life work had been erased. But in such a small minded world that pretended to be revolutionary, making a difference was near impossible.

 _Shelter the people._

 _Ignorance is bliss._

 _In God we trust._

 **~~Cole~~**

 ** _Holocaust_**

Since Cole was a white-skinned European, it was almost good enough for the Germans.

Almost.

He wasn't pure and that had been his only problem. That, and he had been raised in France. It hadn't occurred to him until a couple days before being seized that the relations between France and Germany were worse than he thought and the Nazis were all too keen to throw him into one of the ghettos. It hadn't been bad at first, save for the occasional night filled with gunshots and screams. But Cole had numbed to the world.

There was a time when he had acquired a gun from German smugglers outside the fence that separated them. Up to his head he held it until he felt the barrel pressing against his hair and he put his finger on the trigger. If only to save a little bit of shame, he decided he would rather die than be bowed down under the Germans. The gun had been confiscated, though, after someone had intervened and taken it from him. That had been the worst part about his life until he had been shipped to the concentration camps.

He wasn't used to much hard work or the pain of starvation or the nonstop wails of the dying filling his ears until he could hardly hear them, they had become such a usual sound. Dead bodies littered the streets he worked on and they were left to rot, emaciated against sides of buildings. He guessed the only way he was still alive was because of 'friends' he had bribed in the higher ranks. The sky was mirk, casting a heavy shadow over the workers and one by one, people started to disappear and be replaced. The smell of blood and death was sickening.

Walking down one of the streets in a line of a few Jews and Polish, Cole looked around cautiously. It wasn't long into his time in the concentration camp that he and a few others organized a revolt. He was used to getting things easily. They had met a few times in the darkness of the night, risking discovery from German soldiers. He _knew_ they would be successful. In his world of success and victory, he had no reason to fall.

But when they did finally start shooting and shouting for the others, fear took the people and they stepped back. _Cowards_. They were frozen. And with the rush of soldiers running towards them, he was forced back, slammed against the wall. He didn't dare give them the satisfaction of a cry of pain when he felt a crack, pain in his chest. And that was all it was. Pain. Pain. Pain. And the screams of people. Dried blood plastered the wall next to him and someone else was pushed next to them, red dripping down their face. The soldiers laughed something in German and they were all pressed in a line against the brick.

He felt almost deaf when the first shot rang a few people down and someone crumpled.

Another.

Another.

Another.

The person next to him let out a guttural cry and blood splattered the wall next to him. He felt it on his face. But the smell of the blood was suffocating. He could almost taste it. He didn't deserve the life in the camps, he knew, and when the gun was pressed against his head, it was then he was finally afraid. And they laughed again. And pulled the trigger.

It clicked. Empty. They pulled away and he could hear them reloading the gun. He wished it hadn't gone empty. And he had to listen as they breathed behind him, laughed behind him, and he gritted his teeth. Click. Click. Click. Another click and it was back against the back of his head. And perhaps it was then he started laughing, amused. They were almost doing him a favour. And it wasn't like it was the end.

He'd look forward to seeing them in hell.

 **~~Layla~~**

 _ **World War II: Japan**_

Though women who were part of the Soviet Union were allowed to fight, Layla hated the Russians.

Layla hadn't a clue what ' _arigatou_ ' or ' _konnichiwa_ ' meant, but it wasn't important to her when she moved to Japan. After it had been imperialized by Western Powers, it wasn't terribly hard to find someone who was taught English, so she instantly found a flat to buy, much to the peoples surprise. _What? Had they never seen a woman who could function without a man?_ Apparently, they weren't much better than Germany either when it came to the expectations of women. Despite that, she had settled down. And was happy.

That had been a year ago.

Now, she had changed.

Her red hair had been cut boy-short so it hardly brushed against her forehead and the back of her neck. Though her face looked like an average 'pretty girl', there was nothing delicate about the way she fought. In the trenches, her mask would irritate the skin on the ridge of her nose and she'd watch as the poisonous gasses dropped by the missiles landed on the enemy. Sometimes her breathing would grow tight and harsh as the remnants of the gas would seep into the mask and the binding around her chest would suffocate her, but it was the only way she could fight.

The Japanese didn't want to send women to fight, so she did what she had to in order to get to the front ranks. A few times, she had been called 'feminine' and 'short', but no one really thought that her appearance betrayed her biological makeup. After all, ladylike was nonexistent from every fiber in her body and...she liked being called 'Soldier'.

By the time aircraft carriers started to gain popularity, she was first on their list. They trained her in air combat incessantly. They trained her in important things, like how much to turn the wheel and what altitude to fly at. And they trained her in small things, like how to correctly buckle her seatbelt and that she had to push the little red button when it was finally her time to fly for real, but to never push it in practice. _Never_ in practice. And they trained her on how to steer the rudder and how to shoot the guns on the planes. But they never taught her how to land.

So when she had to finally fly, she wouldn't admit that she was afraid.

She searched for instructions on how to land, but the only instructions she found were ones saying what to do: Head northwest to the American aircraft carriers, once you are above them, press the red button, await further instructions.

There wasn't anything she could do but obey. But when she finally did press the little red button after she had stabilized her plane over the ship, she realized that nothing happened. That nothing had happened except the small beeping the escalated in rhythm as she flew just feet above the carrier.

And only then had Layla noticed the label on the dash of her plane.

 _Kamikaze Model #5_

 **~~Ash and Addy~~**

 _ **World War II: Pearl Harbor**_

After Japan declared war on America, it was all over.

There was no denying that Ash and Nick were meant together. They were happy. Really happy in the way that everything was perfect and nice and even days at Church couldn't cleanse the sinful nights they had spent together. Ash was shameless. Her mother had been a flapper with a taste for nightclubs, and even though she had died early into Ash's life, their rebellious and scandalous behaviour almost seemed genetic. So she had flaunted herself and was regarded as improper.

Then she met Nick.

An unassuming, attractive general in the army who she had fallen in love with at first sight. It seemed like a story but their life was a twist of a plot. After getting married and having a child, they were the ideal family. Granted, he was often gone on calls but she didn't mind.

They were happy.

And then they had moved to Hawaii. A marvelous place with culture and lights and trees. Nick had to man a troop there and they had been forced to transfer locations. Their daughter, Addy, had screamed terribly on the ship ride to there but they had moved successfully nonetheless. After all, it was safe there. They didn't think that the Axis powers would want to take over Hawaii, as it was a small island, and peace settled easily over the town.

In the midst of World War Two raging, four year old Addy pressed her hands against the glass in the living room. Her mom had said something about 'Dad' and 'fighting' and 'dangerous', but she hardly understood. Ash had wanted her to retain her precious childish innocence, though it was difficult to keep her in the dark. It was difficult to tell her daughter that her father was risking his life and might not come home. That the world was purging itself and the seas would soon run red with the blood of millions.

So she just told Addy that there was a dangerous fight that daddy had to solve.

Addy seemed content.

Pulling away the curtains, she stared up at the sky, her big eyes glittering. The view was gorgeous, enough to entrance even a child. Pearl Harbor had always been a sight to see. With blue waters and skies, it was easily one of the prettiest places Ash had lived. Addy merely tapped at the window. Making noises, she laughed and traced the object in the sky on the glass.

"Mommy." She asked, giggling. Ash raised her eyes and Addy continued. "Why is there a plane with a big red dot on it?"

Confused, Ash had looked out of the window. The plane circled once. The bottom hatch opened. A large object started to fall.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

A ring pierced the air.

Nothing.

 **Sorry. This is pretty short. But I kinda lost interest in writing it so it's crappy. I think my ideas were better than what came out. If you guys have any ideas on stuff I can write in my next chapter, please say so.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Jillessa Heronstair's characters: Clarisse, Emily, Shae**

 **SilverJem5's characters: Draco, Percy**

 **My characters: Cole, Quinn, Autumn**

 **~~Clarisse~~**

Seasons.

Clarisse had always loved spring.

People, she found, didn't really understand her. Well, some of them did, but there was always something that they would reprimand her about and it bothered her. So she took to the trees because no matter what she would say, they'd just be silent. They were sentient and didn't ever judge. Well... They were trees. And thus were quiet.

Everything had a cycle.

Seasons faded.

People left.

Emotions changed.

They had their moments and so did she. And though she found herself evergreen with youth, it wasn't immortality she wanted. It was something that defined her as more than just a faerie in the tide of leaves. And she wanted to love and be loved, but not in the way that everyone else did. She wanted to skip the drama, skip the fights, skip the cheesy love quotes that never made sense. She wanted to be special to someone and she wanted them to be her constant. It was this part of her that wasn't satisfied with just the trees, even though they were easy to talk to. But they never answered back.

So she supposed she wanted more of a best friend than a boyfriend.

Boyfriends were so overrated.

Love was overrated in general.

Because it came in seasons and as soon as it started to look pretty, it died and turned ugly and it was a constant reminder of what once was and what was never to be. It was always twisted in some cruel, beautiful way and she would miss the way the light would hit places in certain spots. And it no matter how much she wanted everything to resist the seasons, everything wilted under his palms. And although it could bloom again, it was never the same.

Even Clarisse found herself changed.

Everything changed.

So she kept the trees at her side and the wind in her blood and she ignored the missing part in her chest that never seemed to fill. Because no matter what she would do, it would always stay empty. Like a little part of her had stayed dead when she had been killed and ressurected. And a little part of her stayed forever in the winter.

Empty.

Cold.

 **~~Draco~~**

Everyone had something to tell.

A secret.

A sin.

A confession.

So Draco gave a penny for their thoughts and would convince others to spill their drama on a silver platter that he would feast upon. And he was satisfied in his lone shop because he didn't need anyone and only wanted two things. Money and secrets. Other people- normal people- were interested in love, reputation, sex. But he was anything but normal. As an ifrit, no one trusted him. They doubted him. Despised him.

And he couldn't even make a stupid glamour. So he took his inability in magic and replaced it with power of word. Power of secrets.

It was the only good thing in his life.

Able to know everything about everyone, he could give them one look in the eye and unfold their secrets and personality and desires. Draco enjoyed having the upper hand and keeping an air of mystery around him. No one paid attention to him. It used to annoy him that no one ever believed his word and everyone shouldered him into the crowd, but now... He used it to his advantage.

He was no one.

Who became someone.

Through knowing everyone.

Humans were so stupid, thinking that he was lesser than them because of the colour of his eyes or the shadow of his wings. He wanted them to trust him. Because then he could crush them.

Exposing their secrets.

Their sins.

Their confessions.

And soon the map of their life unfolded before him. And all he had to do was tear it, tamper with it, and change it to break them.

 **~~Cole~~**

It was the first night the nightmares started.

Cole had fallen asleep at his desk in the hotel after a few restless nights and he had crossed his arms over the table, resting his head in them. He hadn't meant to fall asleep- only take a break- but it was then that he noticed something wasn't right. His dreams had never scared him. Even when his demons had flooded them and it was suffocating with suffering, he welcomed it like it was normal. But these...things he were seeing...Those had scared him. At first it was a whisper in his head- a hiss of something he couldn't quite understand. And then he would wake up and they would be gone.

Until they followed him to reality.

He would hear noises so quiet he thought he imagined them. But then they grew louder and more frequent the longer he stayed in the Downworlder Towns. At first it was once a week. Then once a day. And then he knew there was something wrong. Whispers from the corners. Whispers in the dark. Whispers behind him that rang in his ears and chilled him to the bone.

And then there were the shadows.

Every single day, he'd see things. Having lived in and on the cusp of the Downworlder Towns for a few months, he was used to seeing people lurking in the dark. But whatever he saw in the crevices of the night weren't people. He didn't know what they were but even though he only rarely saw their silhouette, he could feel them following him. If only to silence the voices and get rid of the awful feeling of being followed, he'd steal off into the night as well.

And he'd mix up a little hell of his own.

Fear.

Pain.

And he enjoyed it because the whispers would hush and the shadows turned friendly because they had become his home. Despite his temporary fixes, it grew unbearable and he tried to get rid of them in other ways than sitting at his desk and clasping his hands over his ears in a pathetic way to deafen the world. He even visited mundane clinics in a desperate measure to find what the hell was wrong with him. They told him it was 'paranoia' and 'stress' that sparked such schizophrenic symptoms. They were so eager to give him a bottle of pills and send him off on his way.

They only helped a little, but that little relief was everything.

Cole always knew he was crazy. That there was something sick in his head that only a few could really see past. But it was the process of going a true kind of mental crazy that had him afraid because it wasn't as if he could cut out the problem and be done with it.

So when he did try to lash out and grab something to hook himself in reality, he found air beneath his fingers.

Caught in a limbo of the brink of insanity, he wanted time to freeze.

Because, for the first time in a long time, he found himself slipping.

 **~~Percy~~**

Good judgement was like a phase for Percy.

Sometimes, it was there.

Sometimes, he lost it.

Like that one time he gave a very distraught Ash a sleeping potion that she used to almost kill Nick. As horrifying it had been for him when he realized he had given a ballistic teenager a weapon to use against her ex, it was something that they laughed about later. Despite almost being an accidental murder accomplice, he had managed to turn it into a small joke between him, Ash, and Nick because it wasn't as if anyone had truly been hurt by it. In fact, the exes soon got back together and got married. And Percy knew more than most people that they had to break things down before they could build things up.

And sometimes he felt like the only smart person in the Institute. He knew never to get into anything he couldn't get out of and to avoid saying things he would regret later. And he knew that no matter how much he hated someone, he would always be the better person in the equation if he didn't lash out as well and instead retained his calm, thoughtful personality.

Then again, however, he didn't have experience in everything and he supposed that was his weakness.

He was used to being known as 'the potion guy' or 'the warlock with the potions', but it had never really bothered him. Potions, after all, were practically his life and came before a great deal many things- except, of course, his friends. And everyday, he tried to break through more barriers that set themselves up in his lab because the only way to accomplish more was to work harder, faster and make something new.

He always wanted to make a love potion.

But he hadn't ever really been in love, had he?

Surely, he loved Aria, but he found, through time, that he loved her in a friendly way and she had helped him see that.

Even so, he still worked on a simple love potion. It was the most difficult project he had ever done, as capturing an emotion was simply defying the laws of human nature. But with a bit of magic, he thought he made it happen. McKenna had tried it. She swore it didn't work on her after she said how much she liked him and he almost believed her. He was too busy embarrassed at her declaration to think about the potion.

So he said he liked her back.

But he didn't know if he had judged his feelings correctly.

It seemed almost too good to be true- two warlocks in love, forever young with each other. But his good judgement was lost and useless around such emotions because he simply had never been in love before. He liked her, he knew, and he liked her a lot but there was something off. Like they both knew they weren't for each other but tried too hard anyway. They planned for the future but it had all been a quick session of teenage love.

He hardly saw her.

So he started to doubt what he felt was real.

He wondered if she felt the same.

Because through everything, he could never really picture himself spending the rest of his life- the rest of eternity with her.

But he didn't know whether to continue with the relationship or not.

After all, his judgement on relationships had never been clean-cut.

And the last thing he wanted was to make a mistake.

 **~~Emily~~**

Falling back in love with Khoi was startling.

At first, Emily had been drawn to him secretly.

Then she fell all at once.

It was like jumping off a moving train into a pit that never seemed to stop and though she knew she loved him more than anything, something felt wrong. Everything was too fast. Too much. Too perfect in the oddest ways. It felt like something had changed her like she was caught in a mist of fog and no matter which direction she ran in, she still was ensnared by him in ways that she couldn't describe.

She didn't want to love him.

She had to.

Like it was her mandate or her commandments but she was driven by some force that kept them together, like she could forgive him for anything.

And everyday, she jumped off that moving train into that pit and he would catch her over and over and over until it was a repeating cycle.

He was irresistible.

She felt weak.

He was charming.

She was entranced.

And yet something was wrong.

Emily wanted to wake up and find everything clearer but the fog stayed. And soon, she felt safe. She didn't know if something was wrong with her or if everything was going exactly the way it was supposed to, but she knew that no matter what she did, he would be there for her.

Even though he had left her before.

Because people could change.

(Couldn't they?)

 **~~Quinn and Autumn~~**

His eyes are dark.

So dark that they look black even though they're green. There's a sinister smirk on his face. A delighted smirk. Malevolent. But she can't see it. She's blind; easy prey. And she trusts him even though his breathing is ragged and he's as high as the empire state because she's like that. She wants to help even if she can't.

And he's whispering things in her ear.

She tells him to stop. That he's scaring her. But he isn't himself.

And he isn't himself when he grabs her and pushes her against the wall. He's angry- she can hear it in his voice. She tells him to stop but he doesn't and he doesn't even acknowledge that he hears her when he pins her hands at her sides. He's against her and she's choking and she realizes that no one can hear her. That the door to her room is closed and he's muffling her cries with his hand.

He doesn't even sound like Quinn when he talks. It's like he's a whole new person. A terrible one. And she doesn't even know who he is anymore. He had never hurt her- not intentionally. But he doesn't even seem to care anymore. And all she feels is her face pressed against the wall and his hands against her and teeth at her neck.

And again and again, she tells him to stop.

And that he's making a mistake.

And to go away.

But he doesn't.

Not until he finishes with her and leaves.

And even though she tries so hard to blame it on the drugs and the alcohol, she can't.

And after everything, she can't help but hate him.

 **~~Shae~~**

All Shae's focused on is the crowd.

Her hair is stuck to her forehead with sweat, but to her audience, that only adds to the appeal. She enjoys the way their eyes light up when she catches theirs and gives them a sultry smile before working herself back up the pole in the center of the stage.

She's wearing something that can hardly be considered clothing and it glitters in the light, highlighting her skin and everything she does when she sways her hips at the crowd, tossing her head back and sliding down the pole. Someone in the crowd tosses her money and she steps over it- she picks it up later- and bends down, taking the person's tie in her fingertips, lowering herself to brush her lips sensually against his before pushing him back lightly and continuing her show.

She enjoys the way the crowd's eyes are only on her and that they're under her control.

She did always like having the control.

And when she repeats the cycle a few more times, she swears everyone in the room is all about her. After the show, however, is her favourite part. They all fight over who gets her and she only picks selectively who she wants. Mostly it's who pays the most and is the least intoxicated, but she isn't picky.

It's a normal thing for her.

And even when she takes the one lucky person to the back rooms, she continues her little show for them, but always makes sure that she remains in control. Because it's the only thing she has.

Commitment has never been a subject of conversation for her, though she does wonder about it sometimes.

She never considers it though.

She enjoys the fleeting moments of wild power too much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay. So this chapter is SUPER short.**

 **This one is a little different. Since I didn't want to ramble on about the characters, I made this a drabble-chapter so it'd just be tiny snidbits of each character below. So I hope that you guys like the shorter sections...because it's a lot easier not having to write huge blocks of unnecessary text that I've already done in the past chapters.**

 **Also, they're all based on songs and each person has the lyrics of a song I feel fits under their name. At the end I list all the songs in order of appearance if you guys wanna know what they are. :D Thanks!**

 **Jillessa Heronstair's characters: Emily, Shae, Jeremy (kind of)**

 **SilverJem5's characters: Caleb, Steff, Elena (kind of), Misty (kind of)**

 **My characters: Quinn, Cole**

 **~~Emily~~**

 _Remember how to put back the light in my eyes_

 _I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed_

 _'Cause you broke all your promises_

It was this heart wrenching ache in her gut that Emily had tried to work herself through every single day. If she just hadn't been so weak, so vulnerable, so gullible, she figured that she wouldn't even have been unhappy in the first place.

But she had no one to blame but herself.

She loved him then she hated him and then she loved him again.

However, no matter how many times she forgave him, it was as if her words came with a price and she sold a bit of herself every time. Like she was a smoker and her breath came too fast and something around her would squeeze, choke, suffocate the life from her until she was nothing but an empty shell. And she hated herself for that. But there was nowhere to turn but the mirror and even then, she still felt alone.

People called her an attention whore. Maybe she was. She had crossed the line of caring a long time ago.

In hindsight she wished she had never left her hometown.

Never traveled.

And that the past could be undone.

 **~~Caleb~~**

 _Tell me what's the point of doin' this every night_

 _What you're givin' me_

 _Is nothin' but a heartless lullaby_

When Shae had first offered him sex, it had taken coaxing for him to say yes.

He didn't think it would have effected him on a grand scale but he found that he liked her. Like...really liked her. Caleb had once mentioned- or rather, had been forced to explain his peculiar behaviour- to one of his friends about her. He admitted that he had started to like her more than a friend. But, naturally, no one took him seriously. His friend laughed, saying that, "Of course you like a girl who'll sleep with you with no resistance."

It had frustrated him.

Even Shae didn't take him seriously.

She giggled ignorantly in his face before prancing off in her own little bubble. And he didn't think that something so trivial and unrealistic could hurt but he realized that he was in the real world and no longer in a video game where he just had to trade coins for a digital feeling. He wanted her to know that he liked her more than a friend but she just didn't understand.

Every time he talked to her, it felt like he had to restart his strategy.

All the way at checkpoint one.

 **~~Quinn~~**

 _1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink_  
 _1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink_  
 _1, 2, 3 1, 2, 3 drink_

 _Throw 'em back till I lose count_

He didn't hate his lifestyle.

In fact, he liked it. He prided himself for being able to hold out on his highs that seemed to last for years. Like his whole life was one caffeine rush that never seemed to crash and everything seemed to be this one big blur of events that molded together to create one picture of everlasting adrenaline. Drinking too much was never a problem for him and he found ways to break through his tolerance and forget. Forget everything.

His life consisted of 98 percent imagination.

2 percent sin.

But soon he found a wall.

And

way

way

way

way

beneath him, he found a place called "Reality".

2 percent imagination.

98 percent denial.

 **~~Steff~~**

 _We know full well there's just time_

 _So is it wrong to toss this line?_

 _If your heart was full of love,_

 _Could you give it up?_

Steff had always thought she had been too sensitive. So that had been the first thing to change when she had finally rid herself of the curse. 'Numbed to the world' was hardly the phrase she would use: she preferred, 'Finally in control'. It had been such a long time since she had been able to make a decision for herself so, when she welcome freedom with open arms, it was as if she had finally gotten a breath of air in the midst of the smoke. That she finally found a path to her happy ending.

But there was something that kept nagging at her.

It was as if there was something lovely about fire and getting burned. Like finding a strange addiction to a bee's sting. So simply had she believed in a road to happiness and guardian angels that she forgot about the flaws in her very nature. And she learned that, though she controlled her actions, she couldn't control what she felt.

Fear.

Love.

Hate.

All the emotions burning inside her like a fire from a stray match. It felt like she had a switch that something in her would flick on to scare her. And it worried her because recklessness was the very last thing she needed and control of herself was the very thing she craved. Needed. And when she found herself believing and saying things that sounded too good to be true, it hurt to fall back down to earth and find that the angels she was searching for were no where to be seen.

Angels, she forced herself to believe, were a myth.

And happy endings, she found, were merely fairy tales.

There was no such thing as happily ever after.

And yet she still could not control the fact that she still had hope.

 **~~Shae~~**

 _You're on your knees, beggin' please "stay with me"_  
 _But honestly, I just need to be a little crazy_

 _All my life I've been good but now_  
 _Ooohhh_

 _I'm thinking "What the hell?"_

Fluttering eyelids.

Forced exhales.

Roaming hands.

There was something wonderful about the way people reacted when she was in the room with them. Shae knew she had a reputation. She knew that people thought she was easy, and she didn't deny it. No matter what they called her, it didn't change the power she felt when people looked up to her, handcuffed to the bed like dogs in chains. It was all gritty silence and broken silence and she liked it that way.

Because she could do anything and she was entitled.

The problem with Quinn was that he never remembered a thing. He was too drunk, too high, and she hated that kind of thing.

The problem with Chris was that he changed. He grew soft and she knew he had let everything get to him.

The problem with Leo was that he wasn't really the type of guy that had the same type of charm she had. Besides, he was too arrogant and bossy.

Thinking back, she knew of a time in her life where sleeping around wouldn't have been her sort of thing. She didn't want to be labeled as 'bad'. But as soon as her hesitant feelings slipped, the idea of a boyfriend was unthinkable. Now, it was all about the moment. She liked luring in people like a cat lured in prey and she was hungry. She knew they didn't think any more of her than a club slut who slept around, but it was a game to her.

Some people had asked her to take it further than just flings- they wanted relationships.

It was enticing, sometimes.

But then she drew back, thinking _what the hell_.

She liked being bad.

 **~~Cole~~**

 _I better let you go_  
 _To find the prince you thought you found in me_  
 _I better set you free and give you up_  
 _Just wave and say goodbye and let you live_

 _Without a monster like me_

Cole wanted some sort of salvation.

An end to the endless abyss of darkness. It felt as if he had been thrust into a dark tunnel, scrambling for balance and teased by a light at the end. He wondered if anyone else ever felt the way he did, but asking was the last thing he was about to do. He didn't have anyone to ask anyway. Well, he had Stephanie, but even then he couldn't. No matter how kind she was to him or how honest, he couldn't bring himself to give her the whole truth. It was impossible anyway. Even he was confused on what he knew and what was false.

It was that sort of confusion that led him deeper into the dark.

He found that he had changed.

Everything was so wrong, wrong, wrong and he wanted to be different and he wanted to be the same and he took out his anger on the innocents of the town. His whole life was lies of knives and crossbows, spilling blood with skulls and crossbones because no matter what he did, it would always be hell that followed. It was the monster he tried to kill that he found himself become and it felt like a rot in his chest when he slashed and slashed and slashed.

And he would like the sound of the screaming. And it was then he realized the extent to which he had changed.

He didn't know why Steff continued to visit him. Perhaps she had nothing better to do, but he wanted her to leave. And stay. And then stop talking and then never stop talking if only he could hear her voice and know that he wasn't truly alone. But they were different: too different and she was all light and he felt heavy inside and confused like he was seeing the world through a splintered kaleidoscope and all of the reflections refracted light in too many ways till he was sick.

So if there was anything he wanted to do, it was to make sure no one else had the chance to get splintered by the shards of glass.

And he pushed her away.

Again.

And again.

Because even if he wanted to protect her, he could never shield her from the monster within.

 **~~Jeremy, Misty, Elena~~**

 _Picture, picture, smile for the picture_  
 _Pose with your brother, won't you be a good sister?_  
 _Everyone thinks that we're perfect_

 _Please don't let them look through the curtain_

Losing someone was like losing a part of themselves.

A parabatai was sacred. And the pain of the rune being ripped away from them was enough to make them fall. Jeremy, after, had wondered if he had failed his since he couldn't save him. Misty wondered if it had been fate for hers to die after they fell in love. Like it was some kind of revenge from the angels.

A husband was more than just a person. It had been Elena's constant. The one person who was there when everyone declared her a heretic and different. He was patient and kind. And it was that very quality of his that she had fallen in love with.

But as the clock ticked,

People fell,

And it hurt.

And everyday, they put on smiling masks and a pretty personality because everyone would turn away if they didn't. Because the world didn't like the ugly. It was like people had bad days and weren't even allowed to feel it. And instead they would be stuck in a dollhouse of empty happiness and porcelain faces of glittering eyes. And they were afraid to let anyone see the real expression of their eyes in fear of being degraded and told that they weren't allowed to cry because someone out in the world had it worse.

It felt like someone telling them that they weren't allowed to be happy because someone in the world had it better.

And despite the way they yearned to express that they weren't okay, they hid it.

As always.

And lived a seemingly picture perfect life.

 ** _Songs in order: Jar of Hearts, Temporary Bliss, Chandelier, Not About Angels, What_** ** _the Hell, Monster Like Me, Dollhouse_**


	7. Chapter 7

**So...This is a very different story. Like...really weird. But I hope you guys like it.**

 **It breaks the fourth wall.**

 **You guys are one of the main characters. Yeah...I know...weird. But I hope...you know...you guys like it?**

 **It's like...super weird...**

 **I dunno...**

 **Blep?**

 **Blep.**

 **It's second person and first person at the same time. This isn't based on one OC character, but mainly alludes to a few but any can be true. You guys can name the "I's" and you guys are the "you's". Hopefully y'all like it. :D**

 **~~Shadowhunter~~**

I don't know what first sparks in me when I see you but it's me that starts the first conversation.

It all seems like such a blur of nerves but I'm introducing myself and I bite my tongue to stop me from embarrassing myself. Instead, I offer a smile and you give one back. It's a little nerve wracking, but nothing scary. I've always been kind of awkward. Besides, I'm not that good with girls.

Then I hear a voice. It takes me a moment to recognize that it's _your_ voice. The reader's voice.

"Hey." You say and there's thunder. "Do you want to head inside?"

I nod.

It looks like it's going to rain. So I put my iratze in my weapons belt and head up the steps. I can tell that you're new by the way you look around. Don't worry. It'll stop feeling so big pretty soon. But I don't say anything and you don't either as I push through the doors and into the warmer space of the Institute. It's comfortable to me but I can see you looking nervous. You're _really_ new, aren't you?

"You're a Shadowhunter, right?" You ask and you pull your hood off.

"I...yeah." I say, trying not to be so awkward. "You're a mundane with the Sight...I've read about you."

"Yes. I'm planning to Ascend."

"It's an honor to meet you then. That's...dangerous. You must be brave." I say in awe. I can't tell why, but I'm very suddenly embarrassed.

You laugh and then I'm more confused on whether I feel better or even worse. "Yes. It is dangerous."

"Where are you from?"

"A mundane town."

I smile. You're mysterious. "Is that it?"

"I'm sure you'll find out soon enough." You respond, glancing around the Institute. "Were you just on a hunt?"

When you look over, I immediately avert my gaze, instead busying myself with unclipping my weapons belt and taking my gear jacket off. Runes are lacing my arms. Runes that you'll soon have as well. "Yes...I like hunting to clear my mind. Perhaps we can hunt when you're a Shadowhunter. I can help you."

"Have you lived here your whole life?"

"No. I moved here."

You smile, looking content. "Really? When?"

At this, I look up at you, a slight smile on my mouth. "In chapter one."

 **~~Warlock~~**

I remember meeting you once.

It was in a coffee shop which, coincidentally, is where we are right now. Even though I have many things to do and people to see, I can't help that I have a penchant for helping people out. I run my hands through my hair, glancing around the shop. There's browns, reds, oranges and they're spread like smears of hues across the place. I can't help that I'm a little bit of a scattered person and I quickly forget I'm in a coffee shop.

Then you tap my arm lightly.

I laugh, looking down at you. "Sorry. I always did have a bit of a loose imagination."

"It's fine." You say, amused. "Want to go now?"

"Sure." I say, holding the door open for you. You ask me if I'm tired. I say no. The truth is, I'm exhausted. Glamours to cover up my warlock mark mixed with a few sleepless nights are turning up that well for me and all I want to do is sleep...and show you around. Don't worry. Honestly. I don't mind. I have all eternity to sleep but only a few hours today to spend with you. Your company is a blink of an eye in my lifespan and it isn't often that I meet mundanes that aren't afraid of what I am. Of _who_ I am.

You then ask me if I can do magic for you.

I roll my eyes.

How typical of a mundane.

I don't mind though. But I'm not very good at the tangible type of magic so I only do something simple- create a dove of smoke in the air before watching it fade- but it impresses you and intrigues you nonetheless.

"That was very neat." You say. "I'm really interested in magic."

"Well," I say with an easy grin. "You're surrounded by it."

"I'll be able to use magic when I Ascend. I believe runes are magic."

"Indeed they are."

"When do you think I'll Ascend?"

I think for a moment. "Maybe chapter fifteen."

"What chapter is it now?", you ask. "How many chapters are there?"

 _"It's chapter six." I say diplomatically. "Out of thirty chapters. When you close the book, page, window, or whatever you are reading this on, we will cease to exist without you cease to exist without you we'll die we'll die and it'll all be your fault your fault your fault your fault-"_

(Forget I said that. Is there a reverse button? We can rewrite that. Together, of course.)

I shrug when I hear your question, though I easily know the answer. "I don't know." I say, and I feel terrible for lying.

The worst part, however, is that you believe me.

 **~~Werewolf~~**

I don't mind that you aren't easy.

Besides, pretty you may be, you aren't a Downworlder. The Clave looks down upon Shadowhunter x Downworlder relations, did you know that? Besides, you're Ascending soon and I would hate for you to have a reputation of sleeping around...Much less a reputation of sleeping around with someone like me. I don't know why werewolves have such a bad rep. The drug problem maybe? Who knows.

So instead I take you out for drinks.

We've become pretty good friends and I would hate to ruin that.

I don't have many friends, you know.

Most werewolves aren't good at making friends.

(That's a lie right there- many werewolves are good at making friends.)

"Hey. So, if I'm going to Ascend, do you have any tips for me?" You ask and you smile. Everything seems okay even if it is just in that one second. "I'm just really worried that I'm going to stuff up or something. I don't know..." Uncertainty trails in your voice like a paperweight.

"Don't worry." I grin. "You'll be fine. Besides, pretty girls at the Institute are always a plus."

You slap my arm lightly. You can understand I'm just playing. And that's what I like about you. Even though I've only been a side character on and off for the past twelve chapters, it's like we click. I really like you. But in a friendly way- that's what I've learned. (Honestly. That's how I feel, I swear.) Oh gosh...did I just friendzone you? I never friendzone people. You're like...one of the first people I have.

"Does it hurt to Change?" You ask, startling me from my thoughts.

I think for a moment.

"Yes." I say. "Like Hell."

You raise an eyebrow, amused. "Right. Like Hell. Because you've been there?"

"Like all things," I say, "All in good time."

 **~~Vampire~~**

You don't trust me.

I know you don't.

Scratch that. You _didn't_ trust me.

But now you do. I know you do. Because even though you're a Shadowhunter now, you spare my life. Your blade is at my throat and my fangs are out and there is blood all over my mouth and my jaw. My hands are covered in blood and the sounds of the werewolf still whimpering down the street from the ragged holes in it's neck are still audible.

But somehow, you don't kill me.

Instead, you drop the sword and hold out your hand instead.

I mutter thank, taking your hand and standing up. I pull back.

You give me a sad sort of smile. "Not many Shadowhunters show mercy." You say and my eyes latch onto the pulse at your neck. "But I don't want to kill you. I think we should be friends instead." You say, picking up the blade and putting it into a sheath. "I've seen you around."

"We've spoken before." I whisper, looking away. I'm hungry.

"How about I buy you a drink before you get into more trouble?"

I nod at your suggestion. It isn't often that I spend time with Shadowhunters. Actually, I don't ever. But I find that I'm in Takis with you and you order me a drink and something for yourself. Running a hand through my hair, which is now past my hips, I look uncomfortably around. There are only a few people. I look back at you and you have the look of a mundane. Like you pity me.

"You have to control yourself." You said, sounding genuinely concerned. "I might be a Shadowhunter, but I would hate to have to kill you."

You're different than the others.

I agree to try to restrain.

So I finish the blood and I thank you, a Shadowhunter, for a second time that night.

"Have a good night." I hear you call out. I pretend I don't hear you. But I did. I would have said something, but the nineteenth chapter is my last debut and it's ending. I'll still be here, just so you know.

I'm just stuck in this chapter. If you turn back a page, I'll talk again. But I know you won't.

But thanks anyway.

 **~~Ifrit~~**

You ask me something.

I can't help you though.

I can't help you with your problems.

I'm not real and I don't think you get that. Even so, I give you a sly smile and nod at a collection of things at my store. I don't tell you that none of them will work for you, that none of them can make the author write more chapters so all of the people you've met can keep living.

But you're the reader and I'm just a character.

Things are missing from my shop.

Things are missing from the world.

Maybe it's because the end is coming. The end for me is coming too. Don't worry, you'll live.

I'll live too. (Kind of.)

But no one cares about me. I'm just a simple character in chapter twenty five. You won't remember me. Only that you tried looking for an artifact to lengthen your time in the story. Only that there was a person who was there. But don't forget that that person was me.

That all these people really exist in the book.

You've made good friends. Not that I care.

(I do.)

It's not my story anyway.

It's yours.

 **~~Faerie~~**

I've never worried about time or death or the end.

But suddenly, I am.

Because suddenly everything is a little off. You look sad and we're sitting on a bench in Times Square. I would think it would be loud, but it isn't, as if the world around us has been muted. And your hand is over mine and I refuse to look at you. I'm not afraid for me. I'm afraid for you.

I stare up at the sky. It's a pure white, as if it's falling away. "So..." I say. I've never been good with words.

"So this is the end, isn't it?" You say. I look over. You're crying. "I don't want to leave." You said and you pull your knees to your chest. "I want to stay. I don't want you guys to go. I...I...I want to stay here. Forever."

"But you can't." I say, running a hand through my hair, feeling the points of my ears brush against my hand. There's this sudden want to run away really fast and try to outrun the inevitable, but I know that I can't. "Please...Don't leave on this note."

"I can't help it."

"Look-"

"I want to stay." You say, a little more adamantly.

"Just read us again." Tears are pressing at the backs of my eyes but I don't let them fall because I know that they won't do either of us any good. I just want to let you know that I'm crying inside for you too. I don't want you to leave just as much as I don't want to go. "Open from the prologue. Read us again. Please. Then you can come back. And I know I won't remember you in the same way and that you can't change anything, but I don't think I can live without you coming back again."

Everything around us is falling apart. Times Square is fading- white blocks of nothingness filling up the sky and buildings and the streets are empty. They're crumbling away. You're faded a little too.

"I will." You say and the earth shakes with you. As a faerie, the earth, never people, have been the only thing important to me. But you are the earth. You created this in your mind as you read what the authour wrote and for that I am grateful. Because without you and the writer, I never would have existed. But I do and I don't want you to go.

You're my best friend.

I don't want you to think that I'm sad but I am. (I am. Really.) The world around us is white and I can't even be sure I can see you clearly anymore. Only a silhouette of lines and shadows and a faint tune that plays in the background. The ending song. Credit song.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear you close the book, page, window of whatever you are reading that inspire such a thing as Shadowhunters, Warlocks, Werewolves, Ifrits, Faeries, Demons, Ghosts, and everything. And for a moment I linger on in a minute of silence. Deafening silence. I know that you finished chapter 30 and that I'm going to fade away.

This isn't a goodbye.

Just a 'see you later'.

 **So this is super weird.**

 **Yeah...**

 **I hope you guys like it.**


	8. Chapter 8

**These are all AU, all human drabbles about our OC characters. I'm not gonna list 'em all here because I'm too lazy. :D**

 **I did this all on my phone so there's probably auto correct mistakes. It's really short by the way.**

 **~~ooo~~**

There's a simple dream on her fingertips that floats away as soon as she tries to catch it. At first, it wobbles in the air and then pops with a small burst of light and it looks like a bubble. She blinks again and it disappears completely. Clarisse sees her dreams in a strange clairvoyant bat of her eyelashes and suddenly, they become tangible objects. When she closes her eyes long enough, she can picture each of them landing on her shoulders and her feet and arms. She dreams of picking one of them up and letting it run wild in her imagination.

But dreams don't come, she remembers. That's what everyone else tells her too.

And with each pirouette, she dances closer to her dreams and now she remembers just how good the limelight tastes. It tastes like accomplishments and dreams and perseverance and sweat and tears. With each delicate extention of her arm, she reaches out to stroke one of her dreams midair, and they catch the light with wondrous gleams. And then she remembers that she really doesn't care what anyone else tells her.

But when she reaches to grab grab grab her dreams from the air, they pop in her fingertips and she's falling back to Earth. And her dress lifts to resemble a white cotton cloud as she plummets back into a little dance room in a little town of no where.

 _Someday_ , she tells herself.

All dreams could be reached and she can see them clearly above the clouds. All she has to do is reach. And even though people tell her she isn't looking the right way, she tells them that they are wrong.

Because her dreams are a little higher and that's all. They're achievable. She just needs to jump a little higher.

 **~~ooo~~**

The first question people ask him is always, "Why are you a chemistry major?"

The next is always, "Do you like it?"

And the last is always, "How did you do it?"

And Percy tells them that passion isn't created; it's just awoken. He's always been the science nerd: the smart guy, the dependable guy, the one-who-knows-all-the-answers-guy. The question they never ask him, though, is, "How are you?" but part of him is glad because he wouldn't have an answer. No matter how many formulas and sheets of lined, college ruled paper he has carefully planned out the formula of 'Percy' on, he still remains a mystery to himself. And he wishes he were like reactive elements, always adapting and reacting to everything but he finds himself awkwardly between radioactive and a noble gas.

It's a funny analogy, but then again, he's a chemistry major. And when people look at him, they picture him with books and calculators and a beaker in one and they forget to think that he's not just a student. He's not just a formula.

He hasn't figured it out yet either.

But he's more complicated than a compilation of numbers in scrawled out handwriting that he'll end up teaching to the world. Because he doesn't know, that in the future, he'll be defined by more than a wad of notebook paper crudely torn out from it's metal rings to be pushed up against the side of a desk until it's forgotten and it might be far fetched but-...

He doesn't know it yet, but he'll be more than just a formula.

 **~~ooo~~**

His fingers are tapping lightly against the steering wheel and her head is leaning up against the glass.

Picture perfect, Cole calls it, even though he's never been one for that kind of artistic mush. Steff has always been the opposite: a book lover, a student of romanticism, a dreamer. And she lets her eyes close and all she can hear is the faint music playing from a stereo and a heartbeat in their ears. And he's nodding his head slightly, his eyes carefully on the road. He's always been cautious that way.

And even though they look normal

at night, he's popping pills to keep sane and there's bloodied rags in the corner of the bathroom when the blood won't clot. and she's counting stars until the day the fire burns out and sometimes she needs to press a pillow over her ears and squeeze her eyes shut until tears suffocate in the back of her mind. sometimes they yell at each other and it's about the medicine and the voices or the fantasies and false expectations but threads are starting to twist. twist. twist. twist apart and everything starts to fall apart and then

there's distrust mistrust, frustration agitation, and it ends in blood or tears or mixes of both but they convince themselves that somehow they'll be okay. they'll be okay as long as they ignore the medicine and the false expectations.

In the morning everything's perfect and bright and Cole's driving them to the library because he wants something real and Steff wants something to escape.

And he'll drive drive drive because, "Don't worry, everything's fine."

 **~~ooo~~**

Sometimes it feels like everything is falling apart when he's alone. He'll close his eyes and set a hand to his own cheek and rest into it, as if it were someone else comforting him. And he'll wrap his other arm around his body, hugging his sides like he has a cramp in them and he'll roll over on his bed, pressing his face into the covers. They smell like other people. And sometimes he finds himself too relaxed and he sits up straight, his hands darting to seek purchase on the covers like a magician's flourish. Look here! Nothing!

Aspen never likes getting too comfortable. It dulls the senses just in the way that light was blinding. He prefers the dark.

He prefers the way it feels when he stands in the middle of the room, silence and darkness surrounding him until hot breath breaks the barrier and skirts down his neck. And he runs his nails lightly down their neck and kisses them until they are dizzy, both treating it as if it is more than just a one night stand. And the pain- it is all part of it anyway. And sometimes he wakes up the next day with a scratch on his cheek or blood on the bed sheets from where someone scratched too sharp or bit too hard and he smiles and runs his hand over it.

He's a little off that way.

A little off in that masochistic kind of way.

Or sadistic.

Aspen does what he pleases. He's never been fond of labels. Besides, he's too alone for anyone to ever call him them anyway.

And his fingers become a thief to his mind and they rest on his cheek and he pretends that they belong to someone else. He imagines that there's someone beside him- someone he loves- and that they are resting their hand against his cheek and curling a hand around his waist.

Sometimes it's nice to dream.

 **~~ooo~~**

There had never been anything worse to Aria than two-faced people.

At one moment, they were kind. They were all nice inside and they wanted to be your friend. And they would seem trusting and trustworthy and she fell right into their grasp, just _knowing_ that they would catch her before she hit the ground.

The next moment, they were demons. They would snigger behind her back and lean their heads back as they laughed. Claws would curl around her arm and she'd run until she was sure that she had lost them. But they kept coming back to taunt her and taunt her until she found that she needed to stop letting herself get cut by them. So she slipped on a jacket and put on a mask that had a smiling face forever etched into it.

And she picked up on the term "Fight fire with fire," and then something in her changed.

Her words became

cruel and

ugly and

hurtful and

she cringed the next time she looked into the mirror because she had become the very thing she had tried to fight.

 **~~ooo~~**

"Please, no," Caspian wants to say except he only manages to think it.

He doesn't live in any good part of town.

And it's ending with another kick to his side and his hands are pinned down beside him and one of the people near him pulls his shirt up. Caspian refuses to scream but his eyes are wide and bloodshot and a knife gleams in the corner of his eyes. Suddenly they're laughing like they're drunk at some frat party at high school and it feels like a brand of fire is being laid across his back.

They carve the words "misfit" into his back in sloppy handwriting.

Everything's dark in his mind anyway, though, so he chooses to not see it.

He just sits in his room, on his bed and blocks out the pain. The acute pain in his back is caused by six letters of weakness where he couldn't fight off some guys he didn't mean to piss off. He can't help that he's a naturally irritable person.

But if he thinks real hard, then maybe the bad thoughts

will go and then

all the scars

will start

to

fade

aw-...


	9. Chapter 9

**~~ooo~~**

Zander hisses and a knife finds it's way into his hand.

"Now, I doubt you want to do this," Aspen says, his hand finding a dagger of his own. His peacock green eye glints and his hair is in his eyes. A quick shake of his head clears his vision and then it's black again. A body barrels him over and Zander's going at him with a knife, stabbing at the air and at the ground, trying to hit his skin. A shriek tears itself from Aspen's tongue and he rolls clear, managing to only get a thin cut across his cheek. "Look what you've done," Aspen says as he wipes away the blood. "Now, you've been bad."

"Shut up, shut up," Zander cries out, lashing forward with the knife again. He's got the advantage, if only by a little, and Aspen is taken aback by his ferocity. An animalistic growl forms in the back of his throat and Aspen lunges at him with his teeth, latching onto him as they tumble to the floor, rolling and writhing in the grass.

"Look at what you've done," Aspen growls in his ear, drawing his lips down his cheek. "We could have been on the same side, but you chose to try and go after me. _Me!_ You're no match for the likes of me." His hand snakes to pull the knife from Zander's hand, sitting on his chest with his legs straddling his waist. Pushing Zander's hands above his head, Aspen tilts his head to the side. "I could kill your right here. I could kill you and no one would ever care. I could kill you for what you've tried to do to me and throw your body for the wolves."

"But you won't," Zander chokes out, a thin puncture mark on his lip where Aspen managed to bite him. He coughs. "Get off me."

"I can't do that," Aspen says, drawing a finger down his throat, his thumb resting on Zander's pulse. "That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" He's leaning down and bestows him a haughty kiss, more out of spite than anything else. His heartbeat is pounding in enthusiasm and Aspen smiles against his skin. "I have you where I want you," Aspen whispers, his voice low and husky. "And I'm done playing nice, sweetheart."

And then Zander's kicking again and he manages to knock Aspen off of him. Scrabbling for the knife, they roll like cats on the ground, screeching whenever one of them is bitten or scratched. They're more like wild animals than they like to admit. And through everything, the knife ends up in Zander's hands and he swings down, blood welling up in his eyes from a cut on his forehead so he can't see straight. Aspen grunts and there's a sound of something tearing and Zander stands, staring down at Aspen, who coughs and gags on the floor. Aspen raises a hand, the silvery flecks on his skin glinting as he tries to find the hilt of the knife buried in his shoulder.

"You...You _bitch_ ," Aspen gags, spitting up small speckles of blood. "Run, run as fast as you can before I kill you."

"Get out," Zander orders, his head raised as he stands over the faerie. He's never felt in control before. In all his time knowing Aspen, he's always dreamed of beating him up and managing to corner him, but with blood staining his hand from where he drove the blade into his shoulder to the hilt, he feels sick.

Zander sighs inwardly.

 _Oh, the irony._

 **~~ooo~~**

 _In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters._

Percy shook his head in his sleep and cried out lightly, his hands rising to run through his hair. A copy of the bible was knocked to the floor from his bed, landing open on the first pages. Percy had sought mundane knowledge from an ancient document but found nothing but suffering and death and the sound of screaming echoed through his head as he dreamed. It burned on the floor next to him and it made his blood boil.

 _And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness._

"Oh, good Raziel," Percy whispered subconsciously, the demon blood in his veins coursing under his skin like magma. It seared his skin and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. "I am not evil," he protested in a strangled cry. "I am not dark."

 _God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night."_

The demon in Percy's head disagreed.

 _And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day._

With a yelp that finally tore him from his nightmares, he awoke in the dark.

 **~~ooo~~**

While some viewed Shadowhunting like an art, Mason viewed it like a job and talent.

There wasn't anything pretty about the way he fought and he failed to add in the flair of gracefulness that many Shadowhunters did, as if fighting was a dance. No, he liked it raw. He liked the look of things up close and messy and the way his opponent looked when he pressed the blade deeper and deeper. The light would crackle in their eyes and he'd shove the blade in further just to hear it crunch, just to hear them scream, and then he liked to watch them die.

"I've won," he liked to say, his expression clear. "Filth. I've won."

People might have called him unmerciful.

He just called himself devoted to his job.

From the moment he had met Aaron Landers, the demon with a soft spot for mortals, he knew he'd have to kill him. There was no remorse in the thought either, though, and Mason found that he took delight in the thought. Aaron, after all, had tricked him before. That made Mason grit his teeth. _No one_ tricked him. And when the dirty filth went behind his back to work for the enemy?...Mason relished in the thought of killing him; killing him slowly after he had used the demon up for anything that could be of use.

So he was patient.

And waited.

He was good at that.

And it all happened in a library and Mason was cleaning his seraph blade. "I'm sure someone will take care of you in the future," he said, referencing to when Aaron did finally emerge from the Void. He laughed inwardly at the prospect, amused at what someone else could possibly do to the demon who had the audacity to think he was a Shadowhunter's equal. " I do hope you remember not to betray someone again. That is your downfall. Then again, I was going to get rid of you eventually anyway. You just sped up the process."

But Aaron merely laughed, saying something about putting his book in the right spot. He glanced back at Mason before focusing on the bookshelf. "And who are you kidding?" He sniggered, and for a moment, Mason could see his glamour flicker. "I'm a demon. I'm born to betray."

Now, that demon. That _thing_...Mason itched to kill it and he almost couldn't help himself when he took a fist of Aaron's shirt, his eyes flaming with anticipation. "I'd say it's been a pleasure, but it hasn't," Mason said and laughed, plunging the blade deep into his chest. For a moment, Aaron was expressionless and then the world exploded with sound and movement and Aaron was stumbling back, ripping the blade from his chest. The glamour that held back the true appearance of his form crackled and wings formed from Aaron's back. They were billowing and feathered and Aaron writhed, his fingers sharpening to the points of claws and his eyes slits as the rest of his glamour faded away.

He mumbled something before finally disappearing into ash and Mason took no pause before cleaning up the mess.

To him, there was no 'unfortunate' loss that day.

Only a job well done.

 **~~ooo~~**

No matter what people say, Steff never thinks Cole is crazy.

Only...Confused.

There are times when he does nothing but insult her and talk about being damned and dying. His eyes are dark and his fingers are tight on her wrists and she's sure that there'll be bruises if he doesn't let go soon enough. He always lets go in time, though, just when it starts to really hurt, as if he's timing everything out in his head. And he focuses on the negatives as if he's seeing a photograph in the world that is only in shades of black so he's close to blind when it comes to seeing what's right in front of him. Slowly, slowly, Steff watches him tear himself apart like he's a puzzle with too many missing pieces so he's decided to just scrap it in the first place to save himself from pain.

She sees that he's conflicted and she whispers things to him because she wants to help. She wants to believe all the things she tells him but after weeks of things getting worse and spiraling to degrees of hell and she's being burned. There's this little scar on her heart where all the bad things he says go and they collect in a little hole and it hurts. Because no matter how many times she says that Cole doesn't mean the words he says, it becomes a little bit harder to believe it every time.

And there are some moments when everything is undone and she can't imagine him ever being cruel again.

His hands are in her hair and he's kissing her once, twice, three times and her eyes are closed. Raising her hand to the nape of his neck, she sighs and curls her fingers in his hair. His hands are on her sides and she blushes furiously, pink tinting her cheeks when he pulls her closer by her waist. Her other hand raises to put against his cheek but he catches her wrist, lightly, and takes a shuddering breath when they break apart a fraction and in a fraction of a moment that takes too long. Everything is new like he's mapping out how to be kind and she's sure of their ability to be simply okay. And when he moves to kiss her jaw lightly, she takes the time to whisper that everything is going to be okay. _Everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay._

He pauses and his eyes are dark when he stares into hers and she looks away for a moment before catching his gaze again. Part of her just wants him to kiss her again to avoid the silence between them but they've never been like that so he just closes his eyes for a moment and she can see him thinking. _Not everything is okay,_ she knows he's going to say. _Things are never going to be okay._

And when he does, she shakes her head slowly and leans her head against her chest.

He's not crazy.

He's just confused.

But she's not sure if she's just trying to make a silver lining or if she actually believes it.

When Cole murmurs that she doesn't understand, she shakes her head again, slowly, and presses a finger against his mouth. He quiets for a moment and she drops her hand, lifting her chin quickly to press a kiss to his cheek. And even though he calls her weak and shuts himself off as if breaking ties is the 'strong' thing to do, she knows him better. And then she knows that she's vulnerable because she's grieving but she's learned that she's not weak, even if he says she is.

She's stronger than him. She just doesn't know it yet.

 **~~ooo~~**

And Connor's screaming for his brother, crawling across the ground over broken glass.

A picture frame and vase is shattered across the floor and he takes little care of avoiding the shards when he finally manages to push himself up and stumble over to his brother. The lack of a parabatai rune aches where he wishes it was etched and a deep ache settles in his heart. He whispers his brother's name and falls to his knees where his brother is laying.

"I'm fine," Cadyn mumbles, rolling over. There's blood matting the back of his head but his eyes are open and he's staring blearily up at his brother. "I'm okay, really," he says and coughs up a little bit of blood.

"Oh, thank Raziel," Connor presses his face into Cadyn's shoulder, breathing hard and fast and worriedly. "I killed it. I killed it. I killed it and I thought it hurt you real bad."

Curving an arm around his brother's neck to pull him close, Cadyn shakes his head, his eyes pressed shut. "No, no. I'm not that stupid...I...Just...Really need an iratze...Badly..." His breath hitches painfully when he pushes himself up to a sitting position. "Hey. Connor. I'm okay, really."

Connor blinks once, twice, and clears the anxious tears in his eyes. "I know, you crazy bastard. But if you're going to ever get hurt somethin' stupid like that, at least let me know so I can save you."

 **~~ooo~~**

Cypher was never the best fighter of the bunch.

He didn't even know why he was invited into the Hunt. It all happened so fast and although he liked the Hunt, he didn't ever find out what the Hunt liked about him. Really, he just liked to sit up in the trees and watch people and everyone just thought he was a loon. And in all honestly, he was. Sometimes he'd go on Hunts and people would stare at him because he'd hum a jaunty tune and then start a fight he couldn't finish. And there was this insatiable want for blood that separated him from the rest.

He wasn't a bad person, no, but he'd spend hours up on a tree, taking a dagger and slicing it down his finger before pressing it against his tongue and tasting the copper. His eyes lit up and he would draw his tongue over the cut. He'd heal it after with what little magic he had and then repeat the process. When he felt himself slipping, he'd press his finger through his thin shirt and against the metal of his iron piercing and he hissed. It burned.

"Now, Cypher," he'd tell himself, staring at his burned finger. "You have to be good or else."

He tried to think of what he was like before the Hunt but the memories fell through his fingers like sand.

Caspian was never one who believed in second chances.

After his time in the Unseelie Court, he was done. Dead. Used and beaten to the ground until he was a good-for-nothing faerie that could only hardly pull his weight. The staff he used to use grew dirty with cobwebs and, over time, it faded into the depths of the forest and was lost when he was evicted from the Court. Now, what was he? Easy pickings? The laughingstock of the faeries? A dead reminder of what he used to be? When he thought back, he couldn't help a twinge of remorse; he was hardly the faerie he had been when he was a valued member of the Unseelie Court.

And then suddenly, there was a chance. Some crazy son of a bitch would bother him about all these sort of things when he went to the Downworlder Towns. Caspian later learned the lunatic as some crazy named Aspen, but despite already hating him and his dreadful personality, it was an opening to belong again.

 _I'm not a good fighter anymore_ , he protested though, when Aspen encouraged him to join. _I haven't fought in a long time._

But he was convinced to join nonetheless and the Hunt was a new start, a good start; a start for another beginning.

Kellan knew he was a good person.

Through the fighting and blood spilled across his hands, he _knew_ he was a good person. There was something instinctual that fed on his kindness when he saw someone getting hurt. Someone he cared about. And, really, for all he cared, everyone that was a respectful part of the Hunt was his family and he'd do anything for them. He'd fight for their life, make bargains even if he got the short end of the stick. Killing was one thing that he had the most trouble with, though, and a moments hesitation made him afraid because to kill someone was just as bad as letting a member of his extended family die.

He whittled darts anyway, dipping them in faerie poisons that he made out of nightlock and jimsonweed. And then he'd close his eyes when he'd aim for the enemy and he'd look away when they fell to their knees, delusional and sick.

"All life is precious," he would breathe to himself as he came up behind them. "I'm sorry." And then he'd end their suffering and try to convince himself that he was forced to kill them.

He hated it.

But no matter what sins he committed for the Hunt: his family...he knew he was a good person.

 **~~ooo~~**


	10. Chapter 10

**SUPER SHORT CHAPTER  
OC characters, as tweens/mid teens- some headcanon that i interpreted (SO IT MIGHT NOT BE CORRECT/FACTUAL), some canon, some in between or randomness. Mostly pretty short stuff. Really just word vomit. Basically turns into just faerie characters because u know me and faerie characters I'm like obsessed with them and could play them all day. Nothing compares to my love of fae. oh hooray. the fae. mis bebes. mis faes. Legit love faeries so much oml I'm obsessed with their fictional existence.**

* * *

 **rose**

She was a little girl that could tell you the weather of human nature. The little gossip girl spoke of people and the fleeting nature of their happiness and her father didn't see that she just wasn't like _him._ And so he told her to forget the people and those that interested her with their hushed words and he forced a dagger in her hand as if there was no tomorrow. Training never suited her delicate nature, her skin like flower petals and her beauty just as fragile and ephemeral. Shadowhunter by blood, she was a pacifist by choice and she got used to her father's disappointment.

He just didn't understand that she liked to stop and smell the roses, making people smile instead of making people bleed. "You're not a real Shadowhunter," he sometimes said. She didn't protest. After all, she didn't want to be one.

Little gossip girl, what's the weather like today?

 **mason**

don't you dare think about it. nervous? don't be. they're watching evaluating analyzing everything you do. you're young, just fight. that demon, kill it. that knife, wield it right. you've trained for this one year two years three years and they still have their eye on you. kill, kill, kill because it's right and-...you did it. we raised you in your fighting ring, you feasted on the lack of doubt that you would triumph, you grew on ambition and you can't stop.

you have no excuse for failure.

good job, you did well. pass the test, prepare for next year. no better luck next time, get it right the first time, you're running out of time. get ready for the finish line, ready set go.

 **aspen**

They'd put flowers in his hair, sometimes, and dress him like a little wood nymph. A little puppet poppet doll with a needle in it's voodoo heart, stabbing it into taboo parts. A little X over his sternum where emptiness rang because X never marked the spot and he misplaced that treasure a long time ago. Little barbed leashes around his arms during playtime and he, the little puppet poppet doll, would smile, his teeth white and sharp, at the sounds of adoring coos that resonated in his ears. Sometimes he'd gag on the sour taste of possessiveness, fingers pulling back his lips to make him grin until it hurt, thumbs pressed against his gums where laughs rang in his face.

Hands burned against his skin, so hot they felt colder than ice and, in turn, it numbed, chilled, froze him and he lived on a solstice. He grew used to one cheek pressed against the dirt, his fingers playing with a dandelion that he'd drop onto the earth, shredding it with his nails. And the little puppet poppet doll would look up at the sky and spread his wings but he never really learned how to fly.

But after a while, he learned he didn't really want to.

 **dante**

Little boy. Crown of ivy. Gets what he wants because that's how it goes. Shape up. Step up. He's a prince now, has to fight now, for a space now, in his father's kingdom. Brothers and sister fighting to be A-listers. Only throne for one. Climb the levels of hell for a place in heaven. He's close but it's cold and he freezes up. His father's kingdom, mind, heart all in reach of his fingertips and he's fighting to be noticed.

Wouldn't it be funny if his father reached in?

Plucked him off his pedestal?

And just threw him away?

 **xanthe**

master of none. jack of two trades.

running away and being afraid.

use a mask to hide what he's seen.

add what he's done and it amounts to nothing.

 **caspian**

Others don't look at him different because they're not supposed to meet his eyes. Sometimes, on a good day, he'll let them raise their chin as he coaches them, his sharp tongue and sharper eyes intimidating them into obedience. Some stand on the sidelines, distasteful, distrustful, and jealous and they aren't tamed by his harshness. Weaponry and fighting flows from his poise down his arms where his fingers curl around a staff that hums under his skin. And it isn't enough to help him, but it's enough to save him.

Copper never bothers him when it's not his own and he's rising in the ranks, working overtime like he's fighting getting laid off. Like he's afraid of that pink slip, that death slip that's gonna cause him to slip. And maybe he does slip once or twice or ten times, but the others don't see because he doesn't let them. He can't let them.

Because it has less to do with self.

And more to do with image.

 **kellan**

perhaps the day he stopped fighting demons was the day he learned to stop fighting himself.


	11. Chapter 11

**A welcome to the new and a hello to the old and awkward phrasing with some word ramble.**

 **faeries, by yours truly**

* * *

 **finn**

He always got people and they never got him and it was alright like that.

He always told lies and told jokes and people laughed and he laughed and he was always laughing about something because the joke was never on him. He played drunks and played pick-up sticks, trying to see how many he could grasp between his thumb and forefinger before they clattered back onto a table next to an empty whisky cup of someone beside him. And he thought of sin and he thought himself almost pure in the sense that he was immortal and invulnerable and nothing could touch him. No, nothing could cut him and cut his strings that held him above the pit of hell until they did. So he'd retreat back to the ground, pulling his head from the clouds until the sun came out.

Dangerously, he lifted himself to his feet and lifted his ego a little higher, because he didn't die then and he never would.

And next week, who knows what he'll do.

He'll sleep with no one, someone, one eye open.

Maybe he'll make a noose of twine.

Maybe he'll have pick up lines, drink aged wine, or get killed sometime.

 **nyx**

His craving was never narrowed to money, sex, or knowledge.

It was only power he wanted, yearned for, and needed. And when his teeth weren't buried in the shoulder of his prey, he'd press his fingers against their throat, clasp a hand around their wrist, or listen softly at their chest for the beat of blood pounding against the walls of their veins. Sometimes he'd make them cry out of pain, worry, or something else entirely and it was okay because _he_ alone had caused that. So when he let them go and called them good, it was because he allowed it.

Playing God was an adopted title, but it was a title nonetheless.

Because the ability to violate and condescend was a natural trait he knew he had been blessed with. His fingers were always roaming for his new talisman, for anything he held had power. His tongue hissed the language of snakes into ears, threats and curses based on his supreme right to pin someone down and control the pulse that quivered under his fingertips. He could quicken it, slow it, and stop it and he used his rights generously.

And only when he thought he lost everything, did he realize he never had anything in the first place.

 **sol**

up in the attic, he searched for the stencils of his wings. in the bright light, he squinted, holding up a hand to cover his eye, cheek, and shoulder from the burning rays. and in the attic, he'd look for the outlines of his wings. but in the cabinets of stencils, they were all too long, round, wide, and plain to be his. and he never really fit into any even though he ripped them apart with all the power in his hands and formed his own. but they hurt and the edges cut into his skin when he held them up to his wings.

in a mirror in the room, he didn't quite fit. his eye, cheek, and shoulder were always cut by the frame like a line slitting him in half. and he turned away in disappointment to look out the window instead, where his reflection shined back at him with distorted shapes. the sky was too bright, too bleary, and it was sealed. all the power in his hands, and he could not unlock the widow.

but then he found the stairs.

and he traveled down, down, down to the basement where he searched the cabinets and found his stencil. the window was shaded by a large throw of lace and he went to stand in front of the mirror.

although his face was not marred by the frame, one of his eyes was dark, forever shrouded in the shadow of the attic.

 **wren**

little bird, little bird, fly away far. go across the seas to wish upon a star.

maybe you can evade the arrow for your heart. hunting season is about to start.

if you stay now, you might get caught. the land has developed an evil rot.

don't listen them, for they tell lies. their words are filled with death and flies.

the fruit has fallen from the trees. they're feeding your freedom to the honey bees.

little bird, little bird, fly away from here. pretend you have wings before the wasps draws near.

 **caspian**

Wings, he knew, were a gift from his angel blood. The purest of them all were blessed with them and their blood remained saturated with that of the creatures of heaven. To have wings was a sign that he was one step closer to not being dragged down by the demons that grasped at his ankles everyday, their claws digging into his skin as they raced after him. But little by little, they took everything, and soon, his wings were gone too. Because maybe hell just liked him that much. And maybe he never belonged with the angels and the heavens because hell always had a list of names and maybe his name was always on it from the beginning. The angels had wait-listed him and no one ever fell out of line.

Little by little, the demons latched onto his back, digging their claws on his shoulder blades and through the bone to reach his heart.

There, they secured their talons and he harboured his inner fire with kindling that never seemed to run out. No, the angels could not recognize him now and they had turned a blind eye to him, ignoring his existence as if he was never on their mind. And hell opened up beneath him and he didn't mind because how could it make any difference.

If there had been any angel blood in him, it had been burned out of his body.

It had rotted a long time ago when the demons on his back slaughtered it in their evil might.

And, as time went on, he found it difficult to believe that any part of him was worthy of the heavens, the angels, the absolute goodness of the world. So, with open arms, he embraced his demons gladly and scorned what the heavens had denied him.

 **ethos**

There were strange thoughts he had, sometimes, where he dreamt of things he was not. Like royalty. Naturally, he was far from something of that nature, but it never hurt to dream like that.

Sometimes, in the Land Under the Faerie, he'd sit, reclined, against a hill, his eyes trained on the stream where it bubbled and lapped at the bank. It curved through the land, carving it's way through like a delicate scar, the stream too clear and sweet to be that of the mundane world. He found his eyes traveling to the side where a tree hung and he reached out to grasp one of the plums that hung from it. A sweet smell of imprisonment hung on the leaves and he was willingly a Persephone in Hades' lair. After all, he was already bound to the Court.

A while off, a large group of faeries were laughing, bantering about where they played with their instruments, the tune being carried across the hills like a sickness. But they all were accustomed to the flu and they inhaled the air with smiles, talking, dancing, kissing, sleeping, and choking on their inability to break away.

He liked to dream that he could do those things with them, but he was not so immune to the sickness as they were and he was afraid to get caught the spokes of a wheel that never stopped spinning.

When he looked back at the stream, it had changed directions, filling a lake with a quiet flow. After a while, he learned to not question such things and, instead, he started on his plum.

 **dante**

He was rather powerful with a blessed sense of self, crossing the rings of the inferno he was imprisoned in.

It was almost humourous how quickly he had gone from the top tier to the bottom one, forced to mingle and be a part of commoners. He knew he did not deserve such irony and others merely laughed at his name. He was a forgotten prince, a small prince, an ignored prince against the enormity of the world.

What a divine comedy it was.


	12. Chapter 12

**Just some long drabbles about some of my characters hahaha**

* * *

The earth, they figured, couldn't function without the sun.

They had always belonged together, just as a shadow had always belonged to the person and a blade always needed its edge. Sometimes, the twins joked that they had been born to be the same and that perhaps they had been named at birth but then switched up so who could actually say which one was the original 'Cadyn' and which one was the original 'Connor'. No, their parents never told them apart and addressed them as one, scarcely using names as if they were strangers that did not want to offend someone by asking if they were a boy or a girl.

'The twins', they called themselves and laughed and snickered together, their heads tilted together, their words mimicking one another as they spoke together, always joking together, always together. It had always been like that and so it was perhaps because of that, that they did not want to search for this foreign thing called 'independence' once the idea had been presented.

 _"You guys look...the same."_

 _"No shit," they'd say, having heard the same thing for most of their lives. The other people would stare sometimes, as if to try and tell them apart. They had become used to people searching their faces for a slight defect, flaw, and difference. Other than that, funnily enough, they were ignored as if the only thing that made them special was the fact that they were genetic copies. They kind of liked it that way._

Together, things were okay. With neighboring rooms, they had never strayed far from each other and their inability to be separate for more than a few hours hardly burdened them anymore. At night, one of them would always creep into the other's room to curl back in an armchair or lay at the foot of the bed. Everything just had to be...identical. From their hair to their clothes, they picked out their outfits together and needed to part their hair on the same side as if they weren't themselves if they weren't each other. Being a twin, they decided, wasn't just a fact but an identity and they had to be each other's mirror. Because, in the sibling-family-best friend sort of sense, they relied endlessly on the other.

 _People at the Academy would no longer listen to their incoherent whispers because they had mixed with their chatters with Russian and were too chock full of inside jokes. Refusing to take company in the other people, they grew socially awkward and Cadyn clung to his brother like a magnet and Connor did not know how the solar system rotated without his brother. Possessiveness between them grew and people would purposefully leave them alone to not disrupt them, for they feared they would meet distrust and anger. The twins stared at passing people like enemies, like demons, as if the mission of each one was to somehow take one of them away so they would be separated and torn apart like some rift between the worlds._

It wasn't until later that they realized their inseparable nature and they grew restless in the sense that they were not sure who needed whom more. They asked each other who was the sun and which one was the earth, for without the earth, the sun would go on turning forever and forever without a thought that the other was gone. And it was the sun that blazed brightly and controlled the center of the universe while the earth was caught in an orbit that never ceased to spin. Which one, they asked between themselves, was the brighter one? The one that would be distinguishable as a person and not just 'a twin'? The one that would cast a shadow instead of live in it?

But it was a question seldom asked because to be the earth was to give the sun a meaning and it was the sun that allowed the earth to live on. So they kept their arms linked, not minding those who thought them strange because they were a strange happening themselves and they wouldn't have it any other way.

 _"Have you ever wanted to look different?"_

 _"Never."_

* * *

Sometimes, Aspen became confused as to why people had never responded the same way as he did to things. Why they weren't so amused or interested or puzzled as he was. He was fascinated by everything; from the treelines and the changes of people's expressions to the way skin split until it bled and knives glistened even on a dim light. Joining the Hunt had been like removing a blindfold he never realized he donned and everything was very clear and real and sometimes he had to raise his hand to touch his cheek to make sure it wasn't some dream. Because dreams always seemed so real, even when the most ridiculous things happen and he realized that he was in no dream when the only one that seemed to be ridiculous was himself.

Later, Aspen figured out that dreams were only recognizable as dreams because they offered no continuity, changing the setting with each blink of an eye. Rather than traveling across a straight timeline, he crossed planes where he would live a hundred years in his dreams, folding the paper of reality in half so he knew every word and every custom and every practice and everything one could dream of. But, like everything, it came to an end with each waking eye and his little forever in the dreamworld would pause.

" _It's okay," he was told, hands pulling him down by his wrists until he had no other choice but to sit on the cold, grassy floor. "As long as it never happens again, got that?"_

 _He nodded, averting his eyes in a childish manner of disappointment and shame._

" _You'll be good, though," they told him and they pet his hair like a cat, "You'll be good like you're supposed to and we won't have to have this talk again. Or-"_

He found that he really needed people.

Lots of people; perhaps more than they needed him. The way they chattered and spoke freely and disobeyed was new and exciting and Aspen was so quick to track them with his finger, his eyes alight with interest. They were not so unpredictable as he remembered and he grew to like the people, all the people again in different ways. They called him by his name and didn't mind when he stepped out of line, for it was something that everyone did.

 _He was so happy that they thought he was pretty so he shivered in excitement and elatedness, a smile etched into his face as he gazed at them in pride. He was so pretty and good and it was so nice that they wanted to pet his hair and kiss his cheek and touch his wings and do all sorts of things that made him feel all nauseous and dizzy inside. That was good, though, he learned, and that if he was feeling all nauseous and dizzy and bad, it was because they adored him._

Living was good. Sometimes, he felt so alive that he wanted to grab everyone from the forest and point at the stars because they were so vividly etched in his mind and he had been told his eyes were just like them. It was so easy to get others to think that life was good and great and that, together, they would be better and he called the stars pretty and he wouldn't rest until they called him pretty too. Because he was as forgotten as the stars the clouds covered if he was not thought of as wanted or pretty.

 _They taught him so many good things about himself and he grew to understand that when somebody held affection for him, it was okay for them to hook him up to strings and make him their doll. Aspen liked that he was their good, pretty sweetheart and was so excited for the day that he would love someone so much that he could touch their cheek and put his hands around their neck and bite through the veins in their wrist and drag them through the thorns because that just went to show how much they mattered. Because the more it hurt, the more he ached for a little bit more and they told him it was like that with everyone. Pain, they assured him, was just the immortality of all that was good seeping under his skin and settling in patches like ponds and someday, he'd be able to give some of his own._

The chase after the people that told him he was good became monotonous and he memorized the hitches in their breath, the slurs between their teeth, and the hisses of air that stirred the hair by his ear when they held him, when he held them, when they held each other and it wasn't so desperate as it once was. His hands weren't quite grasping at them anymore because they were so welcome and open and there wasn't any ache that settled in his chest that made him yearn for more.

Sometimes he'd remember a life, a past life, a dead life and he'd dream things that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was as if he were trying to catch smoke and the wisps would curl in his palms before dissipating into the air. His fascination for them faded away with it and the planes of time only interested him to a degree until the ends of time refused to meet and it became too...confusing. An infinity would replay itself in his head and he needed to skip around like a warped record needle, playing sweet tracks of appeal. And it was a long dream, song dream, an eternity within a dream and he wasn't sure if he wanted to wake up.

* * *

 **I was gonna add another one but I got too lazy :( :(**


	13. Chapter 13

**anastasia**

Gracefully, she extended an arm to the ceiling, keeping her expression serene although she breathed heavily under her ballet corset and routine. There was a quick moment when she drew her arm back to her chest and then she was stepping forward to do a pirouette, watching her hand extend towards the audience, her arms like the needles of a compass as they guided her northbound. A quick moment and the world turned, keeping her balance as she came to a stop. She raised an arm. It was gloved and poised in the air as she had practiced many times, her hands delicately grasping imaginary feathers in the stage light. Then, crossing her arm across her chest, she gave a bow, her head tilted to the ground as if she wanted nothing but her dancing to be remembered.

 **cadyn**

If he didn't have anything but his identical nature, he wasn't sure what he had. There was nothing he was particularly proud of, nor was there something he particularly feared except for the fact that if he somehow disappeared off the planet, there'd still be a more agreeable version of him left. He grasped onto his appearance like his life depended on it, careful to mimic his brother the way his brother mimicked him as well. It almost seemed as if everyone else had something that made them incredibly interesting and unique but he kept himself in a limbo between wanted to be his brother and wanting to be himself. Perhaps, he sometimes told himself with a shrug, he could have both.

 **dustin**

The more he looked at his wings, the more he grew to despise them. They were liars and made him out to be worthy of being called an 'angel' but people didn't understand that he was far too clumsy, imperfect, and wrong to be anything comparable to the creatures of the Heavens. Like marble statues, the wings glistened in the light, the sun spilling from them as the rays hit the feathers and yet, he remained unsatisfied. Often, he wished for wings that were simple and modest. He wished that people would stop touching them and calling them angel wings and Heaven's wings because they weren't; they were just his wings and burdens. It was a sin, he decided, to be forced to imitate something he was not.

 **elena**

Magic, Elena found, was good. People were the ones that made it evil. They twisted it. Manipulated it. But her magic was clean and pure and wonderful in all sorts of ways where she'd have the chance to say that she saved people. Even if it left her tired and aching and in pain, it was the realization that the energy that gathered beneath her fingertips was a means in helping people grasp onto this crazy golden chain called life for a little bit longer. It was this spark that had once entranced her and helped her through helping others and it was hers but she wanted to share it. Even if she had to hide behind a mundane facade and blame her wisdom on luck, if there was a chance that she could save someone with her own pain, she'd already have the blade poised at her heart.

 **aspen**

Mouths fascinated Aspen. They could bite and kiss and speak and he'd watch in the mirror as he spoke to himself. He ran his tongue across his teeth and across the rouged curve of the inside of his lip, raising a finger to feel the curve of his cupids bow. And sometimes, it would betray him and a cry would be drawn from the back of his throat and he'd bite down on his hand. Mouths could taste as well, like the saltiness of blood and the sweetness of a faerie plum. They sheltered teeth where sharpened canines poked at the inside of his cheek but sometimes the words that were elicited from his lips were the sharpest. He liked to hiss and smile and say sweet, sweet things that seemed sweeter and faker than the mundane desserts he had tried now and again. But despite everything, he found that desire always tasted the sweetest.

 **cole**

Although he had all the money he needed, he couldn't buy what he wanted. There was something that had changed, like everything just seemed wrong and even paying off his debts by the thousands didn't fix what had fractured. Money could not mend the bitter taste in his mouth and the stupidity that he had fallen to. A year or two prior, he would have called his rebellious and dangerous nature 'a diss to the Clave' but now it was more like some grand mistake. If he could just erase everything-...but money could only go so far because even if he moved away and changed his name and wiped his records, he'd still have to live in his thoughts where things rotted for good. Memories, he realized, were priceless and out of demand.

 **layla**

There was this sort of half-smirk, half-smile she'd do to calm her anger when she realized that the person she was arguing with was immensely denser than she was. She enjoyed having a great deal of wits and promised herself that she would refuse to argue with someone who came unarmed. It was the knowledge of the streets that fueled the sharp remarks that so seamlessly threaded from her mind. Once or twice, she had lost her temper but it only served as a reminder for her that she could stare her opponent down, raise her chin, and tell them and their opinion to screw-off ever so nicely until it was far away from her. With a click of her tongue, she'd give a bit of a crooked grin, glad that her wits, rather than her claws, had saved her again.

 **rose**

Her hair was only gold to match her radiant personality. Immaculate, it was difficult to find a curl out of place. Naturally, she liked it that way, obsessed with the idea that perfection was attainable. She never knew when people were staring, inspecting, scrutinizing the way she looked and the way her makeup accentuated the shape of her faerie-features and the way her hair fell over her shoulders. She never knew what they would think if something about her appearance displeased her and she took to hours and hours of self-pampering to make sure such an idea would never happen. To be seen with her hair uncurled and disheveled was something that she drew away from quickly as if it would burn her to think about. Funnily enough, she had burned herself quite a few times on the curling iron but it never scared her away.

 **finn**

He had always loved his eyes. They were unnatural and that reflected everything about him. He was stranger than everyone he knew and it was only a physical reminder that he was different. One of them was a dark blue, like the ocean, and it reflected the sky back at him and drowned out the border that separated his pupil from his iris. His other eye ranged from a lilac to a deep violet, the hue ever-changing in the different rays of light. It was like him, always shifting and interested in new things, like a child who couldn't stop pressing its hands against a delicate display case. He thought it was stupid when faeries obsessed about purity. They would never understand what it would be like to have two identities, two worlds, and they were all his to explore.

 **nyx**

Control was awfully satisfying. There were games he played, ones that he'd teach others to play, and he'd pretend to be all bark and no bite so people would learn to brush him off. At first glance, they didn't understand the marionettes he held, but over time, he made them tie their own strings and nooses. He loved games as long as he made the rules because he had to have the say in what was right and what couldn't be left unpunished. Once in a while, it was okay if they fought back and bit and dragged their nails across his cheek because he had sharpened his blades, his teeth, the hooks on barbed wire just for that. And when they were really powerless, with their hands bound and bleeding and a knife at their throat, he could finally laugh because he had the control once again.


	14. Holidays: It's Just Business

**So, after a bit of writing, here we are. A holiday parade in five chapters, some short, some long. The other chapters just have some brushing up to do, so I hope to have them all out within a week. Some boring business deals, mistletoe moments, lemonade, presents, and war in the next chapters to come. Because, you know, happy holidays. :)**

* * *

After a bit of convincing, Alaric finally agreed to allow the masses to hold the gathering at his house.

He was a staunch businessman, raised with a silver spoon that people often despised since his privileges could hardly fit and be named in long lists and company papers that were neatly organized on his desk. No one saw his office, though, and his business affairs stayed in there to be left in private. There was a bit of unease between his family, who were relying on the gathering- they wouldn't dare say party- to find other business owners and company advisors to create diplomatic relations with. A few especially important people had RSVPed for their arrival and it was important that Alaric, the more sociable adept one between him and his cousin, could establish a few more relations.

It was pertinent, he supposed, to make his manor look welcoming for the occasion. As a child, he had never celebrated Christmas- although a few times he had been given a gift or two from his mother- and found the idea of celebration to be complex. A few invitations had been sent out to a few rich adversaries, hoping for a good conversation, and he let his maids handle the rest.

Mason, his more unsociable cousin that had taken over a part of the company in exchange for a part in Alaric's father's will, kept to himself and his own business. A gathering of loud, extravagant people failed to impress him.

Percy had been the first to arrive, along with a few other eligible bachelors that hadn't had much time for a private life for business had become all of their life. They spoke freely among each other of company problems and tax affairs and Lev, a young assistant that had come in place of the director of the company he worked for, stood quietly.

"Ay, bless the holidays, did you hear we're planning to expand to Russia?" One of the new arrivals said, joined at the hip with his twin. Percy glanced from brother to brother before deciding to address them as a whole, finding them too difficult to tell apart.

"I had to settle a deal with a representative from Russia yesterday," Percy replied easily, looking a little embarrassed at the formality of it all. He looked over at Alaric's manor, which stood dauntingly on a hillside a long ways up a stone path. "We're aiming for China, next...Since medicine is such a prominent thing there. I swear, everyone is a doctor. We've already sent out letters. What is it you two run again?"

"Ah, don't tell us you haven't seen our channel…" It was the other twin that spoke that time, looking over at Percy with a hint of amusement. "We dabble in news. Own a whole lot of reporters. We're ranked number two for most unbiased in the nation, isn't that impressive? Although, we have always been a little liberal ourselves. It was probably the last political news story we covered that didn't make us eligible for number one most unbiased."

"I see," Percy said and smiled, reaching up to adjust his tie before glancing over at Lev, whom looked a little out of place in his youth. "You're the assistant for that new tech company, right? Filmzon, or...I forget the name."

"The director couldn't make it," Lev clarified and he raised his chin as if he could sense the questions that radiated from the twins, fighting to prove his maturity even when they had none.

Percy opened his mouth to speak when another car rolled into the expansive driveway, the headlights blinding him for a moment and leaving small white flecks drifting around in his vision. The twins seemed to have little interest, chatting away to themselves about private matters that seemed to amuse them. A girl with expensive sunglasses fixed her hair in the passenger side, a valet driver seated next to her silently. The girl turned around, gave a smile brighter than the headlights of the car, and spoke to someone in the backseat, a few bracelets sliding around on her wrist before they rested against the edge of her glove. The door opened and the girl stepped out, her fingers grasping at the edge of her dress as she started to stand, giving a smile at the boys and Percy instantly recognized her coyness.

"Hello, Savannah," Percy said calmly and Savannah eyed him slyly from behind her sunglasses, a mink scarf thrown over her shoulders. She smoothed down the front of her dress, which clung to her frame in a shimmering silver material that vaguely reminded him of some of the chemicals he worked with. She was dangerous and charming and he was well equipped against her flirtatious ways. She extended a hand to the back door but it opened quickly before she had the chance to let the person in the backseat out. A girl pushed her way out, her red hair pulled back into a tight bun. An unruly curl fell from it, though, and she reached back to push it from her face before putting a hand in the pocket of her pantsuit.

"This is Layla," Savannah introduced and Percy gave a bit of a laugh at Layla's expression.

"I'm Percy," he introduced, giving her a bit of a mile, "You look excited to be here."

"This woman here was trying to stick me in this god-awful dress with all these red and white sequins on it," Layla said, walking over to join them, "I swear-…This is why I don't go to Christmas parties. They're just tacky. How long have you guys been here?"

"Ten minutes," the twins answered this time in unison, fixing each other's ties, "Shall we go up to the house?"

"Yes, we should, shouldn't we?" Savannah gave them all another glittering smile, brushing past them to start up to the house. Percy watched after her, wondering how she could walk in such a dress and shoes.

* * *

Kellan sat in the driver's seat of his car, tying his tie carefully and tightening it so it rested in the collar of his shirt. Opening a small compartment in the car, he pulled out a container of gel, dipping his finger into it and smoothing it into his hair. Nervousness pulled at his thoughts a bit, feeling intimidated by the party. To his current knowledge, there were supposed to be many people that had been in the business area for much longer than he had and his own income was meager compared to the others. After all, unlike most, he had worked for his current fortune, which was just enough to pull himself out of his parent's debt and give him a steady life on his own. Smoothing his hair back, he wiped his hands on a napkin and put it in the cup-holder before setting the gel container back in the compartment. Slowly, he got out of the car, taking in a slow breath to calm his nerves.

He was never one to be shy or introverted but his relations depended on good first impressions. So, he looked at himself in the reflection of his car window, fixing his hair again.

It was a long walk up to the manor but he found that he wasn't in much of a hurry. Already, he was a few minutes late so he was sure people wouldn't notice his arrival. Besides, the walk gave him time to think over what type of people he wanted to make ties with. Alaric, he knew, would be nearly impossible to speak with. Not only was he the most famous out of all the other people there, but he would only aim for big name business owners with companies to sell. Kellan, although promising, was hardly someone to fight over if they only looked at him with a first glance.

Rich people like Alaric, he had assumed, didn't celebrate something so trivial as Christmas…or any holidays. However, he guessed, it was a good selling point.

Rosebushes grew across the path as if to frame it, neatly cleaned up like the rest of the path. The house was brightly lit in the distance and he headed towards it carefully, calmly, a stray cat padding across the grass. It didn't take him too long to finally get to the door and he produced the invitation carefully from the inside of his suit when he eyed a bodyguard next to the door. Even the invitation felt expensive. The paper was rough against his skin but sturdier than cardstock and it was edged with a metallic gold, carefully calligraphy explaining the details on the front. From interviews, Kellan never regarded Alaric to be one for looks or aesthete, but he supposed it was all for a good image.

Upon arrival at the door, the bodyguard took one look at the invitation before reaching to let him, clicking the door open to reveal the inner extravagance of the manor. The main room was large- larger than Kellan ever imagined and the ceiling stretched tall like a ballroom. Marble stairs curved around the edge of the room where they led to the second floor and Kellan looked around to admire it.

A phonograph in the corner played a sweet, sweet melody of classical music, the small particles of dust getting caught under the needle where it popped and crackled quietly. People in their best attire spoke together in loose groups, a few holding glasses of red wine that stained the inside of their lips. The door fell shut behind him and Kellan stepped forward to survey the room, his mouth slightly ajar in fascination. It was a whole new world, really, and he had never been so abruptly acquainted with the lifestyle of the rich. A table was set up at the side of the room with cheese platters and imported silverware from China, their handles engraved with delicate _hanzi._

A waiter with a tray of wine passed by him, offering him a glass. His blonde hair was pushed back and he looked a little uncomfortable, as if he wasn't used to such clothes and formality, but kept an air of awkward politeness around him.

"Would you like a glass?" he asked cheerfully, extending the tray.

"I would, thank you," Kellan said and gave a reassuring smile as he reached to take one by the stem, "Say, Mr..." He paused, searching for a nametag. "Christianson. When will Alaric make an appearance?"

With a shrug, the waiter looked at him apologetically. "I don't know exactly...but I think later tonight." And with that, he started off, not wanting to linger if others were waiting for him.

* * *

Brushing blonde hair behind her ear, Steff kept to herself near the mouth of the library, observing the gathering of people from a distance. She had always made sure to dress respectively since her parents had instilled good values of modesty in her. Raising a hand to fix the strap of her black, tea-length dress, she pulled her coat around her, taking a few steps inside the library. She had always been told to not wander, but no one seemed to notice her and books were her vice. A fluffy, gray cat brushed up against her leg and she jumped back, letting out a small gasp of surprise before laughing lightly. Kneeling, she ran a hand over its fur for a quick moment before reaching for its collar so she could see the tag. The thin silver band donned a red and green bow and Steff looked at it in festive amusement.

"Church," she said and gave a small smile, "What a funny name for a cat."

The cat, unimpressed, sat down languidly, scratching its collar with its back leg. Then, as if seeing something particularly interested in the distance, it darted off, the bell jingling as it padded around the hall. Turning her attention back to the shelves, she looked at the books, which were hidden behind glass and small silver locks. Her late brother had never liked books and, despite her attempts to change his mind, he refused to allow her to indulge in such commodities. It wasn't like she could say anything, with his standing of social power, but his grasp on her was gone so suddenly after...the accident that she almost didn't know what to do with herself.

"Stephanie Tide, right?" a voice said, standing in the doorway of the library. Surprised and embarrassed to be caught, Steff turned quickly, her hand instantly moving up to her hair as if it would comfort her.

"Yes," she said carefully, "Who's asking?"

"I wanted to give my condolences," the person in the doorway said, his eyes calm and apologetic, "About your brother. It was on the news."

"That's what happens when you grow up in a family such as mine. I wish it was different," Steff relied shyly, disliking it when people brought up her brother. She had never liked him, but her timidness never allowed her to say so. "I'm afraid I don't think we've met."

"I wouldn't have thought so," he said, adjusting his gloves and his stare made her feel uneasy, "Everyone knows me as Des. I'm afraid I can't give out my real name. It would be quite an obstruction of privacy to me and my work." He turned towards the bookshelves and gave a short whistle. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you like that or intrude on your personal business, but if I might say so, you're much younger than I am. And you can definitely change what you've been given. Many people would kill for the royal life."

"I wouldn't say 'royal', but my parents are quite famous." Blushing, she turned her attention to the books as well. "Surely you cannot be much older than I am. You don't look it."

At her words, Des laughed, his gaze unwavering. There was something odd about him, like he was a programmed animatronic that feigned empathy but she shut out those thoughts in sheepishness since all business people seemed to be like that. After all, in a time for festivities, it was hardly the moment to think such...insensitive things.

"I will be thirty in two years," he said, still looking entertained at her observation, "So I'm I am at least ten years your senior."

"Nine, actually," Steff corrected, looking a little astonished at his age, "Well, you don't look almost thirty."

"Ah, but they say age comes with wisdom." Looking back, Des seemed to smile at something that caught his attention. "Well, I best be off. I have a few things I wish to discuss. Merry Christmas. Or happy holidays in general, if you do not celebrate that." And, without another moment to pause, he headed off, leaving her alone in the library.

* * *

The twins made themselves at home, seated on a sofa by the fireplace where others gathered in armchairs or stood nearby to hear their rambles. Connor, the older of the two, held both of their wine glasses while his brother, Cadyn, reminisced merrily of how they first started their company, of sorts. Pride fueled their conversations and they were quick witted both in real life and on-air, oftentimes resorted to comedic improvisation when they forgot their lines. They leaned against each other as they spoke, whispering sly comments while the others laughed in great mirth. Perhaps they only spoke to amuse one another, for other company was hardly a care of theirs.

They had never been so accustomed to classic music and fancy wine glasses and girls in long dresses with fur coats and men in custom suits and waistcoats. But there they were, sitting in a multimillionaire's- or perhaps billionaire's- house, joking away about the news and the types of satire they adored.

"And then," Cadyn started, raising his hand to instinctively push a strand of dark reddish brown hair from his eyes. There was no hair out of place, though, and the gesture was just one of familiarity since Connor had convinced him that they would look professional if they actually gelled their hair back once in a while.

"-He completely forgot the guy's name," Connor interrupted, remembering the story his brother was starting to tell, "And before we know it, the guy...The exact sponsor we need-"

"-Is raging about how we don't know what we're talking about since we're too young-"

"-And we have paid him no attention-"

"-All the while," Cadyn laughed, "We are looking his background up and he's criticizing us for being lousy when he has filed for bankrupt three times. So we listened and then-"

"-Sent him on his way," Connor finished, taking a sip from his wine, "It was awfully amusing."

"You two boys are always causing trouble." It was Savannah that spoke that time, her voice sweet and smart and alluring behind a glass that sat against her lips. "Maybe come apply for a job under me sometime and I'll put you to real work." Her brown hair framed her face perfectly, her blue eyes keen as they narrowed in on the two. She was...pretty, to say the least, but the twins were the last to take the bait.

"Hah, no thanks, Savannah," Cadyn said, waving her suggestion off, "We're plenty successful on our own."

"Maybe," Connor paused for effect, "You could come work with us after you actually gain popularity."

"Oh, I assure you," Savannah smiled, unfazed, "I'm plenty popular."

* * *

Gwen, a budding director of a jewelry company, stood beside her, glad to survey the easy environment that had been presented to her. Walking in, it seemed as if everyone would be stern and formal, but they certainly enjoyed a good laugh and she was quick to join in.

She stood out a little bit from the crowd, her bright hair- green at the moment- styled in an endearing pixie cut that matched her spirited face and pleasant features. Her outfit was not so formal as it was fancy, yet homely, and she liked it that way; if she looked put together and straight-cut, then it really wouldn't be a representation of her company and its style. Not a true representation, anyway.

Scanning the people, she left the group by the fireplace to follow another girl that had been looking at the tables of appetizers. The girl was quiet and her dress was a little old fashioned but beautiful nonetheless. The salesman than never left Gwen's thoughts put a price on the dress and she wondered for a moment how rich the girl must be if she could afford such a thing. Royal blue in that shade and fabric was hard to come by, and such a style from no other place than Paris was sure to be a pain to her wallet. The girl turned to look at her for a moment in curiosity and Gwen found that the pictures of her in the magazines did her no justice.

"Anastasia, right?" Gwen greeted and the girl smiled back and nodded, "Hey, probably haven't heard of me. I'm pretty popular in the Philippines and Haiti right now, though."

"Yes, I've gotten fashion magazines from there," Anastasia responded, her accent thick and smooth; she looked slightly embarrassed of that fact, "You are the jewelry designer."

"Yes, yes! That's me!" With a bit of an excited look that someone had recognized her work, Gwen straightened her necklace in thought. "I've heard your studio gets everything custom made. The ballet outfits, I mean."

"They're very pretty, aren't they?" The girl hid a bit of delight; she had designed those outfits herself.

"For sure," Gwen nodded, "But I've been hearing that you needed someone to make accessories and, I know, you're probably looking at me wondering how I'd make something classy enough for your studio, but I assure you, we'd make great business partners." Reaching into a pocket in her dress, she pulled out a business card. "Check out my winter line. It's all diamonds and sapphires. They really are the prettiest things."

Taking the business card from her, Anastasia read it quickly before tucking it into her clutch. "I'll contact you, then. I do think my mother will appreciate it if I find good connections."

* * *

The buzz of the room had increased, people chattering away and wishing happy holidays in such an unorthodox party for something as simple as 'Christmas'. By then, the crowd in the large room had grown, not to an uncomfortable amount, but to an extent where there were many conversations going on at once and it was impossible to capture everything. A few waiters and maids hurried about to fix up the appetizer area and to refill drinks but, for the most part, they endeavored to stay out of the way of the people.

Cold air gusted into the room and a well dressed man stepped inside, his eyes skimming over the people like he was reading cards. He had dark grey hair, dyed, of course, because his natural brown roots were showing a little. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, like a cat, and his tux was a deep red, like wine. Perhaps the most surprising thing about him, though, was his company. On either side, there was a person that perhaps resembled a waiter of some sort and they both looked to be a little bit younger than the man in the middle.

As they walked in, they turned heads with their eccentric looks and the two escorts laughed along with his words, their gestures precise and carefully flirtatious towards him.

"That's Nyx," Savannah said in slight disgust, her eyes then going to his escorts, "But I heard they're paid good money to follow him around like that. He's super famous in Las Vegas, or something."

"Yeah," the twins nodded, "He owns a casino. He's a famous gambler too. We've covered him on our news."

One of Nyx's escorts pulled away from him at one of his orders, heading over to retrieve a glass of wine. He was odd looking, with one blue eye and one purple- a contact lens, everyone supposed. There was a twin purple streak in his hair and he was wearing a smart looking suit with a deep violet tie, drawing the attention of a few other people.

"Finn," Nyx called, his tone bored yet strict, his gaze fastening on the escort, "Hurry up, won't you? We don't have all day."

The other escort gave Finn a look of urgency, his green eyes bright with intelligence that instantly dissipated once Nyx started to speak to him. He giggled, black hair falling into his eyes messily, and he gave a charming smile and laid a hand on Nyx's arm to compliment him breezily. When Finn rejoined them both with the wine glass, he handed it over, careful to not spill with a certain amount of precision that made it obvious how short he had been working as such a role. When someone caught his attention, Nyx waved off Finn and the other escort, walking over to the twins and his group to vie for more screen time on their news channel.

"Aspen," Finn said, turning to the other escort, "Where do we go? You've been working this longer than I have."

"Oh, just come off to the side," Aspen responded and smirked, grabbing Finn's sleeve to pull him to the wall to stand, "He'll be angry if we linger. Just stand and look pleasant. It's a chore to be bad looking, which is gladly something I'm not."

"How arrogant," Finn teased back, leaning back against the wall to survey the room, "Who has the money to afford this kind of thing? It's so unnecessarily extravagant. All for Christmas, too? I've heard that the host...Alaric doesn't even celebrate it but is just using it to gather people to make money. Is that true?"

"Probably." Leaning a bit closer to him so they didn't have to speak as loud, Aspen raised his eyebrows. "But then again, that's rather smart, isn't it? At least it's not all cheesy. If I was rich, I'd request an invitation to this party too."

* * *

Fixing his tie, Alaric stared at the mirror with a calculated expression, careful to get his tie straight. Unkempt appearances were always bad impressions. Mason stood gloomily in the doorway of his room, looking unimpressed as he surveyed him from the quiet shadows. Alaric reached for his watch and a small envelope that held a patent, slipping it into the inside pocket of his blazer.

"You know you must make some connections tonight," Mason said, having always been the more ambitious of the two, "We're not a vertical establishment."

"We're not a horizontal one, either. I like to think we're a mix," Alaric answered, turning to face him, fastening his watch around his wrist, "If you're so concerned, won't you join us downstairs?"

"I'm not one for petty parties. I prefer to stay here and do real work." With a sniff, Mason raised his chin, a demeaning tone lacing his words. "I haven't the time to socialize."

"We both know it's a lot more than socializing. If we don't break even by the end of the year, we'll have to sell some companies and the infrastructure of our...monopoly could crumble," Alaric reasoned and the walls of the house closed in a bit and he straightened his posture, "I won't have us looking weak anymore. We're not a weak family."

"Surely we can use our savings to revitalize the companies," Mason interjected before he could walk out, annoyed at his cousin's lack of understanding, "That would be best."

"I think family before the company. We can't bet everything. That would be rash, Mason, you know that." Slipping on a pair of white gloves, he brushed off his suit. "Now, if you'll excuse me." Sparing Mason one last glance, Alaric started through the door, not very eager to have to confront many people at the party and work out tedious contracts. However, it was what he knew, having grown up on copyrights and paperwork and long lists of economic enemies, and he was sure that he would not let his parents down.

* * *

Kellan had decided to join the main group of people that gathered around the fireplace, finding that they weren't as terrible as they had been rumoured to be. Another attendant, whom he recalled was named Percy, spoke about intriguing things and he was quick to pay close attention. Some others gathered about too to hear about his medicinal discoveries and he soon learned that they were all rather rich and had obtained a large amount of power through inherited status. It was then, Kellan realized, that he had something the others did not, which was the will to struggle above his born plot on the social ladder. Unlike him, they had never fought for their place and had grown up with their priorities set.

"You look like you're thinking too deep for a party like this," a voice came behind him called, dark and private. Kellan looked back, immediately extending a hand to greet him.

"How do you do?" he said politely, scanning the person, "I'm Kellan."

"Nyx," the other person smiled, taking his hand for a long moment, leaning forward to whisper, "I wouldn't listen to what they tell you. They really are the wrong sort, the lot of them."

Smartly, Kellan's eyes creased as he squinted at him in thought, drawing his hand away. "I think I can trust my own judgement, thank you."

"Ah, whatever suits you," Nyx shrugged, taking a sip of his wine, "Mighty fine coming to a place like this. Nice servants, too."

Kellan glanced over at the two odd looking boys that still chattered by the wall, his interest soon turning into concern. Who would want to live their life as some servant? Instinctively, he looked at the servant that had first offered him wine and his worry dissipated. It was the same, really, and he was sure they made good money. He couldn't imagine someone being as rude to not pay them well, anyway. He, himself, had always made sure to accommodate for his worker's needs.

"Are you doing anything for the holidays?"

Looking back at Nyx with a careful stare, he held his gaze. "I might travel to see my family."

"Ah, I see. Mine died years ago," Nyx said and smiled wide, "About time, really."

About to answer, Kellan grew quiet as the rest of the people grew silent, turning to face footsteps that echoed through the large room. The record had also ceased to play, leaving a solitary note hanging in the air like the smell of perfume. A few people beside him shifted to walk towards the front of the crowd; he recognized the twins and that one girl, Layla, as they slipped between people for the best spot. Spotting why everyone had moved to a standstill, Kellan made sure to keep his posture modest and his expression one of respect.

* * *

Mason watched from the doorway as Alaric addressed the crowd with some sort of regal nature that made him laugh. His cousin, while smart, was anything but a party host and it offered him some amusement on such a drab night. They both shared a distaste for unnecessary chatter and impulse, but Alaric, surprisingly, had been the one to suggest a gathering during the holidays. Mason detested Christmas. He didn't have much of anyone to celebrate it with anyway, so it was rendered, in his mind, dreadfully obsolete and a mere waste of materials.

Alaric, he observed, was careful to keep a friendly tone, chatting with people once he was done talking. The servants would hate having to take down all the decor, but Mason didn't care about them anyway. For God's sake, they were being paid to work. He didn't understand why people would try to be more hospitable than that.

Feeling no need to join in, Mason leaned against the doorway to look at them from the second floor, catching a glimpse of some girl with bright red hair speaking with Alaric before moving to sign a patent. If they could extend their business to a few more directors of separate companies, he knew they were sure to keep their place as the top supplier in the nation. Running a corporation had never been easy, but neither was life, so they matched well.

His eyes were drawn up the faint outline of a girl and his gaze hardened, recognizing Savannah. She was pretty, and she had always been like that, but he hardly noticed and turned away immediately to go walk back to his office, not wanting to deal with her and her antics.

"Mason, right?"

In annoyance, Mason turned to where the voice had come from, eyeing someone that was standing by the stairs.

"You're not allowed up here," he responded curtly, disinterested in the person's name, "Or I'll have to call security."

"I've only come in curiosity," Des answered, looking pleased, "I think your cousin is a very good speaker; very intelligent and good with his rhetoric. That's definitely different than what I heard about him."

Mason was careful to not show his curiosity, but he was good with facades, giving Des a courteous and careful look instead. A good businessman always knew had to fake a customer. A better businessman knew how to fake himself. Taking a step towards Des, he straightened his tie.

"You're interested now, aren't you?" Des inquired.

"If it involves Alaric or me, then yes, I am."

"Well, word was that there was some terrible corruption and financial issues in your...corporation. Of course, it was just a rumour."

"Who started it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

In frustration, Mason ground his teeth, cautious to not show it on the outside. "Naturally."

"Ah, well it was on some news channel," Des responded, starting back down the stairs, "Owned by some brothers, apparently. Nice place to brew some gossip. Anyway, Happy Christmas. You might as well enjoy the rest of your holidays."

* * *

Shaking hands with the twins, Alaric handed them a few files and forms.

"It'll be a pleasure working with you two," he said smoothly, "But I do warn that I'm strict on how I like things to be run. I don't want any lies being tossed about the establishment. I want an honest news channel, and my corp will pay you twice as much as your current income if your station actively promotes our business."

"Of course, definitely," Cadyn grinned, brushing a bit of dust off his brother's suit, "We'll mail these to your main office."

"Yes, and we will make sure to make our news stories very honest," Connor smiled back, "Very honest, I'm sure."

Hooking their arms together, the twins snickered to each other as they started away to the front door, their hands clutching the precious papers that they had been handed. A gust of freezing air met them as they pushed through the heavy door and a bit of snow crunched under their feet, snowflakes twirling in the air as they fell. A few landed in their hair as they started back down the path and they giggled to themselves.

"Is it out of batteries?" Pulling an audio recorder out of his brother's pocket, Connor's eyes gleamed slyly. "This is going to make a great story. Imagine the headline-"

"'Rich Adversaries Meet Their Economic Demise'. Sounds good?"

"Hmm." Connor thought for a moment. "How about 'Sharpblade Businessmen Host Party in a Desperate Attempt to Save Falling Stocks'?"

"'Rich and Royalty Attend Businessman Holiday Party to be Used for Company Relations'?"

"'The One Percent Fails to Represent at Holiday Party'?"

Cadyn smiled. "How about 'Sharpblade Cousins Cut Their Luck on the Edge of their Own Double Edged Sword: Holiday Edition'?"

"Oh, yes. Alluring, interesting, and an exotic sounding news story," Connor said enthusiastically, tucking the audio recorder back into his pocket. The wind picked up around them and they stuck close to one another, humming Christmas songs underneath their breath. Snow dusted their suits white and they laughed their way back to the limo that had been waiting to pick them up.

"Ah, the snow," Cadyn held out his hands, the papers slightly wet from the ice, "Merry Christmas, dear brother. Let it snow on this fine night."

"Let it snow." Smirking, Connor nodded. "Let it snow, indeed."


	15. Holidays: Mistletoe

**An very short array of mistletoe happenings in lieu of Christmas celebrations. Some OOC-ness and all modern day, mundane AUs. Huehuehue.**

* * *

Pointing up, Park grinned. "Looks like we got stuck under the mistletoe. What a shame I have to kiss you now."

Walking past him, Layla scoffed at his lousy attempt. "One, I'm older than you. Two, you look like a typical thirsty guy. And three-"

"Yeah, what's three?"

"I'm way out of your league..." she called back, "And everyone else's."

* * *

"No, you don't have to kiss her," Elijah said in annoyance, gracefully falling back on his bed and letting his hair fall in his eyes. He adjusted the cell phone in his hand. "I don't even know why you're asking me this."

 _"She's asking me to dance. I hate dancing and there's the mistletoe over where she wants to dance."_

Abel's frantic voice traveled through the phone speakers, uncharacteristically flustered. Rolling over onto his stomach, Elijah set the phone in front of him, unsure of how to comfort his brother. He had never been very good at comforting people, even family, and with his little brother talking about things that he himself had never had a problem with, he was unsure of how to respond. So he kept quiet for a long while, listening to his brother's harsh breathing before speaking again.

"Just tell her you don't want to kiss her if she tries," he muttered, fed up with the conversation, "Just push her back or something."

 _"Elijah...I can't be mean to her,"_ Abel answered again, growing more and more perturbed by the minute, _"I'm to be married to her in three years, remember? God, I can't be mean. Not like you would be. If we dance under the mistletoe, you know she's gonna want to kiss me. She's like that."_

"You're fifteen, Abel. Most boys your age are dying to kiss a girl."

 _"You didn't!"_

"I'm less than desperate. And you're overreacting"

 _"God, you're not helping. This is serious stuff, Elija-...Oh, she found me...Wish me luck, brother. Farewell cruel world-"_

With a click, the phone hang up and Elijah shook his head. He didn't think he had ever been a child ever with those sort of issues but even his brother, who was still even-tempered on a bad day, reminded him that immaturity was a natural thing. Grumbling in annoyance, he pulled the covers over his head. He was lucky, he supposed, that he was never invited to Christmas functions. He wouldn't have wanted to go anyway.

* * *

No matter how hard Evande tried, the only kiss that Church would give him was one of death.

* * *

"Mistletoe is toxic, you know," Cole stated, staring up at the plant and reaching up to pluck a bright white berry from it. He studied it for a moment before letting it fall to the ground, watching it roll across the carpeted floor until it halted at the base of the bookshelf. "Surely you don't believe anything of the fairy tale nonsense surrounding it."

"It is kind of a fairy tale thing," Steff responded, looking a bit sheepish, her hand still closed around a book, "And a Christmas thing."

"Did you know," he started lazily, his eyes flickering between her, the plant, and the bookshelf, "That mistletoe is a parasite. It uses other plants as its host and can disfigure it and kill it as it leaches off of it since it's such an infectious plant."

"You're just a joy at parties, aren't you?" she sighed, tucking the book back into the shelf, "Maybe you should have decided to major in biology instead."

He looked back at her with a bit of a scoff.

"You know I despise science, Stephanie."

"I was kidding..." Carefully, Steff turned back to the shelf to run her fingers lightly across the books. She had read almost all of the Christmas classics as a child, but one could never reread things enough. Finding new things to discover in the words on pages was a whole lot easier and less intimidating than trying to find new things in the words people spoke. "Since you seem to know so much about something as simple as mistletoe."

"I thought it was general knowledge." His comment turned into a bit of a smug remark and he pulled a book from the shelf, studying the cover. "Have you read this book? It's a classic."

Shyly, she shook her head.

"I'm surprised you haven't. Well, I'd recommend it," he said, extending it towards her, watching her intently, "Read it over the holidays. Let me know what you think."

Waiting a few moments as if it might have been a prank, Steff stared at the book, knowing it was rude if she didn't take it. For a moment, she felt a flicker of distrust for his intentions, never sure if he might laugh at her or draw it away suddenly as if he were baiting a cat. However, he didn't budge. A book suggestion was hardly something to turn down anyway. Then, slowly, she reached out to get it, nearly flinching when he caught her wrist with his free hand, lowering the book by his side.

"It might not be your type of novel," he stated plainly, his gaze shifting over hers before traveling back up to the mistletoe. Amused, he slid his hand from her wrist and under her hand instead to lift it and brush a kiss lightly onto her knuckles.

"That's alright," she stammered, embarrassed, "I like all books."

"I'm sure you do," he answered, turning her hand over to place the book in her grasp, looking pleased, "Even the ones that aren't fairy tales." Drawing away, his eyes glinted. "Maybe you ought to recommend a book to me sometime."

She agreed silently before taking a step back and saying, "Maybe."

Delighted with her response, he turned away and started down the aisle, his stride slow and confident.

"Merry Christmas, Stephanie," he called back, reaching to put his glasses on before disappearing as he left the library, leaving her with the book dangling from her fingers.

* * *

"Cadyn. Give me a kiss."

"Go shove a mistletoe up your-"

"That's so rude. I just want a kiss. Just one."

"Connor, no. I'm not going to give you a kiss."

"Then I'll steal one," Connor said decidedly, reaching across his brother's lap to pull one of the chocolate kisses from the bag, "Personally, though, I prefer caramel."

* * *

Pulling a bow from his hair, Blake grimaced a little bit, tossing it aside so it landed on the bedspread near him. Sitting back in the chair he was in, he rested is chin on his hand as Rose hurried about the room, rambling on about something to do with updating an in stuh graham...or was it gram? Either way, he wasn't sure what graham crackers or kilograms or grams in general had to do with anything she was talking about. All he knew is that every time he pulled the green and red bow from his hair, she'd scurry over to put it back on him.

"Keep it on," she said excitedly, locating a matching bow and nesting it above her ear, "It'll be adorable. All my followers will want to see."

"It's a girl accessory," he complained, staring at her as she fixed up her makeup, her eyelids sparkling with some sort of gold powder that complimented her eyes, "And I'm not a girl, if you haven't noticed."

"Effeminate boys are all the rage now," Rose argued, wagging her finger at him with a wrinkle of her nose and a smile, "It's super cute. And I need some bait for my followers and you'll bring in lots of likes."

"This idea of exploitation puzzles me."

"Oh, just trust me." Bouncing over to him, she pulled her phone from a pocket in her dress, scooting him over on the chair to sit next to him.

Cluelessly, he watched as she flipped through her apps. Anything related to technology had him baffled. He had only figured out how to work a blender the week before. Opening some sort of camera app, she held up the phone, her smile contagious to the web as her eyes sparkled on the screen.

"Smile!" she ordered and he stared at the phone blankly with a look of disgust at his reflection that was more apparent than he thought, "Oh, if you're not going to smile, then you at least have to look pretty! Or handsome."

"I don't want to be either of those."

With a giggle, she laid her head on his shoulder, striking another happy expression, the phone clicking as she took photos of the two of them.

"Oh, this is cute! Oh, but my eye is a little bit squinted. I like this one-...What are you doing here? I like this one, but does it make my hair look weird. Here, let me straighten out my dress. Wait, this is a cute pose."

"Rose-"

"Blake, just one more."

"I'm sure-"

"Now smile to my Instagram! Three...two...happy holidays!" She grinned again, nodding at the picture that she had finally managed to capture. "Oh! This is a cute one! How should I caption it? Maybe with a smile and a Christmas tree emoji and a hashtag that says 'happy holidays'. It'll be so cute and mysterious and-...hold on." Looking back down at her phone, she started out of the camera app and into another one that look similar, although the app icon had been yellow.

Holding down on the screen, she raised a hand so both of their faces could be seen in the camera and a graphic appeared on the screen. Suddenly, Blake realized that he had frosted antlers and a smudge of brown on his nose and he jerked back, looking startled.

"It's just a filter," Rose said, looking amused as she watched him, bouncing a bit in excitement, "Which filter? It's for my story for my other app. That way, we can be extra, extra cute." Without waiting for an answer, she swiped to check out the other filters, stopping at one where a sparkling mistletoe hung between them.

"No, definitely not that one," he protested, a heart appearing on the screen every time he spoke.

"Don't open your mouth yet or it'll cover the screen in hearts" she scolded, getting into position, her free hand poking at the bow in his hair, "Make a kiss face on three...two...happy holidays! Oh, Blake, you need to at least smile. And a mistletoe means kissing. You have two options: kissing my cheek or kissing in the direction of the camera. Please? I really, just really want the cutest photo."

"I don't see why you're so obsessed with this," he sighed, watching the filter in displeasure as she took more pictures, blowing kisses at the screen, "A mistletoe? That's tacky."

"Either that, or very festive," Rose answered, jumping to her feet and giving a twirl of her dress, "Oh, the pictures are just...just...adorable. You do promise to take pictures of me for my outfit of the day update today, though, right?"

Rolling his eyes, Blake didn't see any other option but to agree.


	16. Holidays: War and Peace

**All of this is not entirely factually correct, but merely influenced by the time period and aftermath of the war. I'm sure you probably know this, but in America, December is winter (it is odd for me to think of Australia having summer in December haha) so that is why the weather is as such.**

* * *

Although the war with the Central Powers had ended over a month prior, it was a treacherous journey back to New York where all foreigners were allowed free passage back to their mother country. Americans shared cabins with the French and the British and the Russians and the great ships carried them to their shared destination. On their long voyage, a ship had been overturned through the Atlantic and thousands of other casualties and deaths were added to the lists of those that died by the violence. The conditions were cramped and dirty but they made do, their faces solemn as they drifted over the unkind waters.

Pushing through the crowds at the dock, Steff glanced around, her hand knotted in the edge of her skirt, which was narrow and restricted her movement. Her parents had refused to indulge in buying her the latest fashions, which included tulle pleats in the side of skirts that allowed for greater strides, but she hadn't been surprised. They had spent far too much money on her brother, her parent's _precious_ son, to buy anything much for her.

Her hair was braided modestly behind her back and curled into a bun, hidden under a wide, lace hat that sheltered her face from the wind. She had refused to wear anything too colourful in the time of warning and the dark hues of her skirts and blouse kept her from feeling the cold brunt of the December chill.

The docks were packed with people and she furrowed her eyebrows nervously as she walked through, trying to keep the mess of people from stepping on her skirt. A paperboy near her shouted out the news, waving about a damp newspaper with his cap of a few coins extended to the crowd. He yelled something about a new list of casualties and unknown victims and Steff turned away instantly, pushing her way to a less crowded area of the dock.

There was a group of young women from the church handing out pamphlets for Christian groups, extending wishes of good holidays and moral behaviour. A few people walked over to get one, saying grace with rosaries clutched in their hands as if their 'amens' could fix the tragedies that the war brought. People around her clamoured with excitement, a few of them announcing they could see the ships in the distance. Someone next to her muttered something about the crowd and the voice was lost in the wind.

A well dressed boy, looking no older than twenty or so, leaned casually against a post, a cigarette rested on his lip. A bit of dark ginger hair hung in his eyes and it was instantly moved by the cool, wet winds, putting out his cigarette. He cursed and dropped it on the deck, stepping on it to ensure it was snuffed out before reaching for another one and a lighter. Then, under his breath, he began to hum an old Russian folk song and Steff lifted her head to go over to him.

"Sir," she started out, a great deal of hesitance in her posture as she leaned back on her heels, a meter from him, "Have you any idea where the Duncan will dock? You see, I'm looking for someone."

Glancing over at her, he inhaled a puff from his cigarette, regarding her with a stare that made her feel rather uncomfortable. Then, reaching into his pocket, he held out his box of cigarettes.

"Care for a..." He had asked her something but it sounded so foreign and odd that she didn't quite catch it. Blushing, she took a step towards him.

"Sorry?"

"A smoke. A fag. One of the durries," he said again in a pleasant accent, raising his eyebrows as if he were particularly dense. Understanding, she shook her head quickly.

"Oh, no thank you. I don't smoke," Steff responded, her cheeks heating up. Lifting a hand, she tilted down the front of her hat, glancing shyly back at the ocean.

"Your loss," he shrugged and stuck the cigarettes back into his suit pocket, exhaling a few wisps of smoke that were instantly caught in the wind, "The Duncan is docking right here. The Sussex is the one just half a kilometer down the coast. It's nice to have them back home on Christmas Eve. I would hate to spend the holidays alone again...Ay, you're from England. I can tell from the look. You don't look American."

"I-I _am_ from England," she stammered, suddenly more self-conscious than she had been before, "Immigrants aren't always so welcome here."

"I'm from Russia, but I'm sure you could tell from the accent," he continued, looking particularly amused with himself, "At least you're full white. As for me, I've got a bit of oriental in my blood, I'll 'ave you know. A quarter Vietnamese. It only shows a little, though."

"Really?" Showing a bit of interest, she smoothed her blouse and looked up to make eye contact. Her mother, a strict traditionalist, had never allowed her to speak with anyone of any Asian descent. Granted, though, she had only ever heard of the Chinese coming to America to work in mines and for the railroad companies and her mother forbade her from leaving the city to go see. In England in her house on the countryside, her only neighbors for kilometers were a few wealthy white folk, which treated them kind enough, but their house always smelled of soup.

"Yep. My parents are ragin' advocates for the liberals. They deal with racial integration and all of that," he stated, proud of the fact, "They didn't want any kids but they got two. Funny how that works but we get along...alright. 'Course we don't agree on everything, like the war, but they're a little more open minded than others."

"Ah, I see." She didn't, really, since her parents had never been very open-minded. "I read the liberalist papers sometimes. I write, too."

He raised his eyebrows, looking appreciative. "You're literate?"

Slowly, she smiled a bit, looking away and off into the distance. "Very. I've even gotten a few of my articles published, but...of course they've been published under other names. I did the analysis papers on the German troops and their intents."

"I must have read that, then. I've always been interested in the war."

"Oh? And why aren't you fighting?"

He paused for a long moment and Steff swallowed nervously at her question.

"I'm sorry," she apologized quickly, "I didn't mean to offend-"

"I didn't take any offense," he assured her, "I'm sick. I can't fight. They didn't clear me for combat."

Steff raised a hand to her mouth, unsure of how to react. Curiosity burned at the questions in the back of her head but she merely turned to face the ocean where the ship grew nearer. A bit of nervous anticipation fluttered in her chest and she wasn't sure if the pressure on her lungs was one of good anxiety or bad. The boy near her shifted and she immediately looked over at him, studying him shyly as if she could pick out what was wrong with him.

"It's okay, you know. You can ask."

"Then," she said slowly, "What's wrong with you?"

"I have a type of lung malignancy in early stages," he stated casually, setting the cigarette at his lips to inhale again, "No, it's not from the smokes. Everyone smokes these days, anyway. It's not like I can do any more damage to my lungs."

"You seem young and perfectly healthy, though," Steff blurted out, unable to stop herself, "Why do you have it? That's...terrible."

"Long exposure to arsenic. It's not like I'm going to die within the year, but I've just got to be careful. They're calling it the perfect housewife poison, you know." There was a hint of objectivity in her tone, a sort of detachedness that made her feel a bit of pity. "It really is the perfect poison if you know how much to put in someone's drink. If not, then you're left with-...Oh, goodness, I never asked your name. How terribly rude of me. I'm never used to giving out my name."

"Whyever not?" Steff asked before continuing, the subject of his illness long forgotten, "I'm Stephanie, but everyone calls me Steff."

"Ah, Steff," he said and nodded at her name, "Name's Connor. I guess I never give out my name because the thing about my brother and I is that we're identical. No one can tell us apart anyway, so we don't bother with names."

"You and your brother must be close, then."

With a smile, he gave a slow nod. "Yes...He's really all I have."

* * *

Swearing vulgarly under his breath, Aspen's hands shook as he buttoned up his waistcoat, jumping out of the way as he nearly walked into the path of a carriage and a car. Holding his jacket and coat high from the ground, which was covered in puddles, he slung his coat over his shoulder and started on slipping his jacket on. The air was cold and he breathed it in with a delighted smile, keeping his footsteps quick. The ships were docking, he had heard, and he wouldn't be missing it.

As he hurried down the street, finally managing to slip his coat on as well, he shook black hair from his face and looked around at the familiar streets. Having been in England for quite a while on bad terms, he had missed the free air and fitting places and parlours and bakeries of New York that littered the towns. Just as he was about to turn down a street, his eyes caught a few familiar curls of red hair, his stride immediately coming to a standstill. From the back, he could see two of his old friends that he hadn't seen in at least three years, but they still looked exactly the same. No matter which way the time ran, he felt as if he were always caught in a standstill. The person next to the one with the short red hair gave a bright laugh at his own joke and Aspen smiled in recollection. They were an odd sort of friends, but they were friends nonetheless.

Walking over from behind them, he put on a large smile, deciding that he couldn't greet them without a grand entrance.

"Merry Christmas, boys," Aspen declared with a fiery grin, his eyes alight as he strode over to the cafe table, "I'm a changed man."

Looking back, the two rose from the cafe table where they had been sitting, look of shock imprinted on their faces. One of them muttered "I'd know that voice anywhere" but Aspen couldn't tell who said it. Either way, it didn't matter.

"Aspen?" the one with the red hair said, blinking a bit as he neared them, "You're back from England?"

"That's right, Kellan." Looking over at the other, he whistled a quick catcall. "Hey there, Finn. What's that? No greeting for your old pal?"

 _"Old?_ " Finn repeated, his mouth ajar. "Oh, God, you're not dead. We all thought you were dead."

"But, hey, I'm not and I'm just as pretty as ever. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You sneaky bastard." With a laugh of incredulousness, Finn dove towards him, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing a matching sly grin into his neck. "Where on earth have you been? Things here weren't the same. Well, Kellan is still boring and follows the laws too much, as usual." Pulling away slight, Finn studied him. "You look different. A little. You have a bit of a scar on the side of your neck, have you noticed?"

"You gave us a scare," Kellan agreed, fixing his necktie, "We all thought you had gone to fight the war single-handedly."

"No, I got stuck in England," Aspen said grandly, on the verge of explaining, "In _prison_."

"Prison?" With a frown, Kellan crossed his arms. "What did you do?"

"I was charged with gross indecency, my good fellows, because England is not so accepting of my preferences." Holding out his arms, Aspen's eyes gleamed with his usual enthusiasm. "You're lucky I got out alive. The only reason I did is because they needed my cell. There's lots of war criminals now, you know, and my sexual endeavours were no longer of interest to them. Not to mention that now, they'd probably have to charge the entire cell block with gross indecency since now I've acquainted most of them with the idea that one does not necessarily need a woman to-"

"Ah, that's enough," Kellan interrupted, clearing his throat, "You know that isn't something to laugh about. People are killed over...your...situation."

"Am I _that_ taboo to you? What is it like in that sad fishbowl life of yours, Kellan?" Aspen teased, "I don't hate on you and your preferences just because you prefer women and I prefer all."

"What was it like in prison?" Ignoring Kellan's concern, Finn brightened in intrigue. "Did you talk with any killers? When did you get back?"

"Oh, I've just been home since yesterday evening. I figured I'd come out to-"

"Aspen." Sharply, in a tone he seldom used, Kellan stared him down; he had always been the most reasonable of the three. "You ought to be more careful. If you are too reckless in public-"

"What? What will they do? Put me in prison again? Look, my good friends, I've just got to go. I want to meet Cas when he gets off the ship," Aspen said, looking distracted as he started off again, eager to be everywhere at once, "Come by my place tomorrow. I'll fix us a good drink." Without looking back, he pulled away from them both, setting his sights on the incoming ship that seemed to cast the coast in a shadow.

* * *

Steff waited anxiously as the ship docked, the sails billowing above the crowds so they almost seemed as if they were the ones casting the winds. The morning was young, but families were gathered anyway, a few young children crying over the chill that made their noses run. The sun reflected off the water and into her eyes and Steff raised a hand to block it, squinting slightly. A child near her started to babble incessantly about guns and she flinched, taking a few steps away. It was never healthy for children to be exposed to things like war at such an early age, lest they turn out like her brother.

A shout startled her from her daydream and she tried to stand up on her toes in her boots, craning to see over the crowd of people. Someone next to her whispered, "War prisoners," and she widened her eyes, peering through the people.

A well-built Caucasian soldier had started to usher two people down the ramp that connected the ship to the harbour, a rifle pointed at their backs. The prisoner's hands were restrained behind their back and one of them was angrily muttering something in a language she couldn't understood. Her eyes roamed their uniforms and the quieter one of the two just looked around with a bit of nervousness, looking fiercely defensive over who he was walking with. A red stripe around their caps and cuffs gave them away as Bulgarian soldiers, part of the Central Powers.

Surely, they were just people like the rest of them. It was only a pity that there had to be a losing side and a winning one.

The soldier ushered them along and the crowd parted to let them through, the people exchanging silent looks. The group of church women prayed together for a moment as if to ignore the prisoners, their hands clasped together and their heads tilted towards one another. Another person whistled a holiday carol and as soon as the prisoners were out of sight, the chatter between the people increased and they were long forgotten.

Slowly, the soldiers started to trickle from the ship from different exits, a few mothers throwing themselves at their husbands with tears of joy as their young children kept their cold, small hands clutching at their skirts, wondering who the strange men were. A few teen soldiers left with bandages still wrapped around their faces, their arms in splints and casts. They only bore smiles, though, glad as they rushed to their mothers for a warm greeting. Delighted cries rang across the pier, bringing a bit of hope back into Steff's expression. Other people's happiness was enough to fuel her own.

"Loki," she called out, trying to push her way through the masses of people and soldiers, "Loki! It's Stephanie." If her brother could see the way she was calling for him now, he would have been pleased. He always seemed upset and it was no surprise when he wanted to go off to war, having always talked about fighting for his country.

After a minute, she called his name again, looking a little bit embarrassed. When she turned back to the ships, she found that the crowds had thinned, people starting to walk back home with their family.

Seeing a soldier with a uniform from France on, Steff started towards him, remembering that her brother had fought alongside the French in the later battles. She had been indirectly informed about that by her parents, who were the only people Loki bothered writing. She had never minded much, though, seeing as their relationship was always teetering between tolerable and bad.

"Pardon me for interrupting," she said, although the French solider hadn't been talking to anyone, or looking for anyone, for that matter, "But do you know a soldier named Loki? Loki Tide?"

When he looked up, she found that he looked to be about her brother's age, if a bit younger, but she was unsurprised. The soldiers were often recruited young. His eyes flickered over her as if scanning her and he ran a hand through his hair to push it back from his eyes.

"Loki? Sure, I know him," he said, looking particularly unimpressed. One of his hands was wrapped in a bandage, but he didn't look to be in any pain as he started to clean his musket.

"Yes?" she pressed on, feeling terrible that she needed to interrogate someone on their first day back on dry land after the war, "Where is he? He sent...my family a letter a few weeks ago, so I know he's fine."

"I believe he's stuck in customs," he answered, looking a little bit annoyed.

Steff frowned inwardly, but she wouldn't let herself be put in a bad mood, even if it was her brother she was looking for.

"Do...do you know why?"

"Listen, lady-" the solider remarked unkindly and she was a little bit surprised when she noticed that he didn't have a hint of a French accent, "-I don't know what he did. He was in my fleet and that was all."

"I..." She grew quiet, knowing that her parents would have scolded her for talking too much. "Thank you then, I suppose.

"I wouldn't stay around here alone," he added suddenly, a certain drawl to his tone that made her realize he was far from concerned for her safety, as if he just wanted to show that he knew more than she did, "A young girl in the midst of...deprived soldiers. They'd be quick to whisk you away."

"Why...that's quite forward of you," she responded, looking uncomfortable with his sudden piece of 'advice', "Are you trying to warn me off you?"

"That's a rather stupid question. I wasn't coming onto you in the first place. Do all little girls assume such things?"

"That wasn't what I meant and I'm not a little girl," she defended suddenly, forgetting to bite the remark back. "I'm a lot smarter than you make me out to be, you know."

"Interesting." At her claim, he looked a little bit smug, as if entertained, and pushed off the post where he was leaning. "I didn't think you had it in you to say something like that. I didn't mistake you for someone stupid. I mistook you for someone who'd let anyone say anything about her and just nod along as a response. Now, that would be stupid."

"It wouldn't be right, either. Correct or righteous to assume something so low of me."

"It's not given to people to judge what's right or wrong. People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken, and in nothing more so than in what they consider right and wrong," he said breezily, letting his musket hang from his good hand, "That's what I believe."

Steff gave the soldier a funny look.

"You didn't come up with that," she said as if to call him out on that fact, "That's what Andrei Bolkonsky said. _War and Peace_ , Leo Tolstoy."

"Yes, it _was_ Andrei that said that," he said, his eyes glinting over to her before regaining his composure to suggest that he was unimpressed, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've to go register for my passport, silly things. I don't enjoy dallying around." Starting past her, he joined the thin stream of people leaving, soon blending in with the rest of the fair-haired and fair-skinned young soldiers that had been heading off as well. She frowned inwardly, less concerned about her brother and more concerned about when she would have to return back home unaccompanied. And, she realized, that she had forgotten to ask the solider his name.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the dock, Aspen pushed a rock into the water that lapped at the support beams, watching it create ripples that spread wider and wider until the flattened out completely. The commotion of people behind him started to grow quiet and church bells rang in the background. He had been raised strictly Protestant for most of his childhood in the bleak little orphanage in Alabama. He had been the only one in the place with black hair and he had lost the twang in his voice years ago when he had moved to New York.

Now, he hadn't gone to church in nearly six years since he was seventeen and it was of no interest to him. All he ever did in church was sing hymns and read the bible and pray to a god he didn't believe in. Even if he had believed, he still hated the bible. It was contradictory and made him out to be a sinner in all sorts of ways. Which, he supposed, was almost right, seeing as almost everything he did was wrong in some way.

The ship had cast a shadow across the entire pier, shielding him from what little sunlight filtered through the winter clouds. It wasn't a very festive time but, with everyone coming back home, it was a good time.

"You never wrote."

Aspen lifted his chin at the sudden clear voice that started behind him, a smile growing on his face. Rising up slowly, he turned around to face who he had been expecting, shaking dark hair from his eyes.

"I never had the chance," he responded, a look of relief in his expression, "Cas. You're okay."

"I am," Caspian answered, looking reserved and tense, his eyes avoiding him to instead stare out into the ocean. He was silent, always opting to think instead of voice every single thought that went through his head. Aspen found that they were complete opposites.

"I'm very glad of it," he said, moving to take his hand to squeeze it in reassurance before slipping an arm around him in affection. Caspian ground his teeth, a gleam on pain in his eyes that was the only indication that he was in any pain at all. Instantly, Aspen pulled back, his eyes searching him for any injury, a questioning look in his expression. Instantly, Caspian started slowly towards the street and off the pier.

"Don't ask," was all he said, his tone clipped and closed off. Catching up to him, Aspen nodded.

"Alright, then. Until later. I'm really happy you're back, though. And just in time for Christmas. You've spent three Christmas' without me," he chirped, taking his arm instead, "Did you celebrate Christmas at all in the war?"

"I haven't even known you for three Christmas'," Caspian said as if Christmas was a foreign idea to him, "And last Christmas, you didn't get me anything good."

"I got you something very good." Looking puzzled and amused, Aspen tried to stop a laugh. "I imported you some German condoms, since they're all the rage there. You should be grateful. I heard that a lot of people in the navy got a bad case of syphilis."

"I threw them out instantly," he responded, looking uncomfortable in all the bad sorts of ways, "It was a stupid gift."

"I got you chocolate too."

"Why didn't you write?" Caspian questioned, suddenly changing the topic.

"Oh...it's a long story. I was being detained in England," Aspen remarked, looking proud of that manner, "But let's not talk about that, because you know I'm constantly getting in trouble. I'd rather talk about you."

"I'd rather not."

"Really, though, what was it like? Did you kill people?"

"Of course I did and-...I'd rather talk about something else."

The streets suddenly felt very cold and empty and Aspen drew closer to him, raising his free hand to push a bit of blonde hair behind his ear for a moment before pulling away very quickly. His eyes roamed the streets but, from where they were walking, he couldn't see anyone and he was glad of that. If he did something that looked...wrong, he'd get in trouble, no doubt, so he let go of his arm as well.

"You still look very handsome, if you were wondering," he stated plainly, tucking his hands in his coat pockets, "And I've made arrangements for Kellan and Finn to come over for Christmas Eve. And then maybe invite a few ladies to join us. It won't be anything with funny business, I promise. I can cook, too. And you need to come. You don't have to bring anything or talk to people, but I just want you over. Okay?"

"That'd...That'd be okay," he said, sounding unsure, "I'll be over before it gets dark."

"You had better come earlier than that. Maybe noon." Aspen smiled at him. "Am I walking you home? You should go home, shouldn't you? It's this way, if you had forgotten."

"I hadn't."

"That's good, or else I would have been worried."

* * *

Steff noticed that the Russian she had spoken to before the ship docked was facing the ocean when she left, a hand pressed over his face and a somber yellow note dangling from his free hand. His shoulders were shaking imperceptibly and she stood away from him for a long time, wondering if she should go over to console him. But no, they hadn't known each other for more than ten minutes or so and she wouldn't impede.

Walking off with a bit of guilt, she glanced back every so often. She hadn't ever seen a man cry before.

* * *

They walked the rest of the way in silence, stopping every so often to let a carriage or car by when they needed to cross the street. There was too much to say, they supposed, for a walk across the town and they exchanged silent glances every so often. One of them would catch the other one's eyes and they'd watch each other for a moment before looking away suddenly. It was normally Caspian that looked away first.

Finally, they had neared a quiet street where Caspian had lived a few years prior before he had gone off to the war. He paled a little bit at the familiarity of everyone and Aspen studied him sidelong. It must have been difficult, he knew, to suddenly be transported from a comfortable life to death and suffering and so much blood and then back to a comfortable life on the edge of a town. There were no grenades hidden in the bushes or soldiers ducking behind fences and that idea was hard for Caspian to grasp and even harder for Aspen to understand. Prison, of course, had been tough, but war had been unbearable.

"I'll let you settle in alone," Aspen said, turning to face him at the steps of Caspian's place, "And then I'll go home and come back with some food. Tea, maybe, too."

"You don't need-"

"I want to," he insisted, his green eyes bright as he stared at him. Slowly, he lifted a hand to set it against his cheek lightly, brushing it with his thumb.

"Aspen, people might see-"

"I'm so glad you didn't die," he said, throwing his arms around his neck suddenly to embrace him, "And we'll celebrate Christmas and the new year and I'll come over a lot and bring you things. And if you ever need any help or someone to talk to, you can come by or I can come by...Alright?"

"I don't want you going out of your way to..." Caspian swallowed, letting himself relax slightly. "I mean...Alright. Sometimes."

"Sometimes is good enough for me. And-...You're okay right now and I was so worried and...I won't leave. It really is a happy holiday," Aspen said, burying his face in his neck for a moment before pulling back just slightly to kiss his cheek, "Welcome back...Welcome home."


	17. Intermission: Captivity

**I lost some files for the Holiday series so...**

 **I'm in the process of rewriting, so have a bit of intermission in the meantime of things because I had a chapter I had written a week or so ago.**

* * *

 **Captivity: the state or period of being held, imprisoned, enslaved, or confined**

* * *

Dustin's breath caught in his throat and the Queen retied his cloak when it started to fall from his shoulders. She had been wearing a cascading black gown that slipped purposefully low down her chest and her glassy blue eyes fastened on his when she smiled at him.

Her fingers prodded at his hair and his skin like he was her doll and she took his hands gently to pull him over to her bed. A few feathers shed from his wings and her fingers slid against his palms and nausea rose in the back of his throat because everything was too dirty. And her nails had been filed to points, dipped in red dye so they looked like droplets of blood against his paleness. Her red hair fell down her shoulders and people likened her to a rose but he knew that red really meant poison and his skin was poisoned and he could imagine it growing dead and black and furling back like he was some decaying corpse.

But every time he looked in the mirror, he was still pristine and gleaming and he wanted to look away very fast, like a frightened cat and the Queen would not let him look away. Instead, she stared with him, raising a hand to stroke his cheek and whisper things into his ear that made him recoil.

Sometimes, she'd make him lay on her bed and she'd speak to him in slow, seductive words, her lips brushing his ear, his cheek, the edge of his lips and he wanted to dig his nails into his face and tear off his skin because perhaps if he was ugly, she would not want him. His wings would spread across the Queen's bed and she whispered, "My angel," into the breeze like he was a little, perfect toy that she could not bear to part with.

Once, he tried to pull away.

And he had never seen something so beautiful, so ugly.

Her face had contorted in rage at his unwillingness to abide by her rules and she sent him away for a long, long, not long enough time where he befriended a unicorn and everything was simply...good.

But she grew lonely and invited him, ordered him back where he had to lay on her sheets with her head on his chest and her hair across his shirt and his skin where it poisoned his purity. Dustin had been forced to tell her stories and tales of the kingdom and praise her with a mimic of pride in her voice. Closing his eyes, he wanted to shield out the diseased feeling that crept through his veins because he had been spoiled and if he did not simply disintegrate into the wind, he feared he would not be able to live at all.

"Angel-...My angel. You're an angel. You look like an angel." She whispered those awful things sometimes.

"No." Those words always rested on his lips.

"My angel, angel, angel, angel."

Softly, he let the word "no" hiss into the breeze when no one was whispering, his voice as light as a feather. His hands grew bloody when he washed them too much, his nails raking at his skin to remove the impurities and the red reminded him of the Queen. She was everywhere and he couldn't rip her from his body and his thoughts and he gasped at his inability to control anything.

Perhaps it was always meant to be like that.

He was used to being a prisoner in his own home.

* * *

Being blindfolded had reminded Steff of home.

She could understand exactly what she wanted to do, her lips straining to speak with the constant threat hanging around her thoughts. People drew closer to her only to scratch her with their claws outstretched as they forced her to do things she hated.

And no matter how much she yearned to fight back, her hands had always been prisoners.

Steff would always tug and pry but it would only end up with her getting hurt in the end.

"You're never getting out." The voices would ring in her ears and they all sounded like her brother. Her world had always been black with the wool pulled over her eyes and she yearned for the day when she would finally be let out. Her lungs had already known fresh air and she yearned to breathe more than smoke.

* * *

Sitting against a tree, Nyx let Aspen rest between his knees, slouched back so his wings were pressed against his chest. Slowly, Nyx drew his fingers through the black hair, twisting it around his finger before letting it fall back to cover his ears. He let his head loll to the side where he stared at a few others, one other faerie curled up on his side on the hill with their hand clutching a knife. Another was sitting up straight, her hair curled over her bare shoulders as she kept guard, facing where the Towns were in the distance. A few others chattered quietly, their weapons never straying too far from their hands. Life was like that and it wouldn't change.

"Brr-…It's cold," Aspen muttered, pulling his cloak around him, a hint of childish annoyance crossing over his expression, "Can't we go to the Towns tonight? It's always warmer-"

"I'm surprised you would suggest something like that," Nyx reprimanded, tightening his fingers in his hair as a bit of a warning before moving to pet him again affectionately, "You ought to not question my decisions for the night. Or any of the others, for that matter. I'm keeping everyone safe."

"Because they're bad?"

"Exactly."

Aspen thought for a long, hard moment, his green eyes squinted in thought.

"Am I bad?" he asked, tilting his head back to look up at him, "Sometimes, I am. Sometimes, the people here say I am very bad and I would like to be good."

"Would you like to be good? Really good?" Nyx smiled, his eyes glinting slightly in thought. "I know how you can be good and it is very simple. All you have to do is follow my orders and everything will be wonderful and no one will get hurt. Besides, you are a child. Children cannot be bad."

"When will I not be a child?" Aspen drew his knees to his chest, licking his lips. "I don't want to be a child anymore. I want to be older and maybe…eighteen. That's a good age, I think. Or even sixteen. I'd be okay with that too."

With a bit of an amused laugh, Nyx started to prod the edge of his wings, drawing his finger down the edge. Without a pair of his own, his interest in them had always been piqued and he often found himself drawn to them. Slowly, his hand traveled from the tip of his wings down to his back where he pressed between his wings with his palm to straighten him so he wasn't so slouched.

"One does not become an adult with age." Drawing his hand away, he always noted that Aspen looked generally displeased when someone invaded his wingspace, for lack of a better term; he found entertainment in his disapproval. "They do adult things and take on adult responsibilities."

"Oh? Can I do that?"

"You'll do what I say. And then you'll be good and you can be an adult."

"Am I not good enough right now to become an adult?" Aspen rambled, refusing to be denied such a title. "Am I not nice enough to be an adult? Am I too dumb? Or ugly?"

"Now, now," Nyx said harshly to silence his questions, "When you insult yourself, it insults me because I have raised you for the last two years. Don't forget that."

"But I-"

Quickly, Nyx caught his arm to pull him so they were facing each other, their faces very close and still. His expression hardly changed while Aspen's crumpled a little bit, a look of caution in the back of his eyes. He tightened his hand slowly on his arm, smiling to show off his teeth with a smile. Drawing back, Aspen flinched, remembering the times that he had been silenced with a fight and a quick bite to the wrist or his hand. The only one that had scarred, though, was one on his shoulder that was an accident of Nyx's sudden rage and Aspen was convinced he'd have the teeth marks for the rest of his life. He hoped they did not make him ugly.

"I am the leader here and when I say something, you'll follow it. Do you understand?" His eyes had grown dark, the slits of his pupils growing impossibly narrow and his breath skated across Aspen's cheek. Then, suddenly, he was leaning forward to kiss him and force his mouth open and it was so wrong and Aspen recoiled at the sudden intrusion, his arms tensing as he jerked back and Nyx just stared at him in contempt. It dissipated after a moment and loosened his grip on his arm.

"I didn't like that," Aspen whispered like it was a secret, shifting uncomfortably, "Why'd you do that?"

"Because I can do whatever I like," Nyx said and grinned, running his tongue across his teeth, "And you shouldn't complain."

"I thought..." Unusually nervous, black hair fell over his bright green eyes, contrasting against his fair skin in the moonlight. "I thought you cared about all of us. Me and her and the others and that you would listen and not do bad things and...not do _that._ "

"Do you want to know what love is?" Murmuring lightly into his ear, Nyx moved to hold him protectively against his chest. He had always enjoyed treating him like a child, afraid when he would grow up and rebel. He was afraid everyone there would somehow just grow up and rebel. "It's when you care about people that you trust them to never leave even when you do bad things. And even if they hurt you, they're doing it for you because it just shows how much they care. Just think that anything you don't like is a bit of me caring for you and everyone else. That every time you _bleed,_ it's because I allowed you to. That every time you cry, _I_ am the one that's allowing you to show that weakness. Every time someone forces you to do something you don't like, it's because they want you to become better."

"That's what love is?" Aspen listened carefully, not wanting to miss a word. "And caring?"

"Yes," Nyx said and started to pet his hair again, "That's exactly what it is."

"Do you care for all of us?"

"Of course." His fingers weaved in and out of his hair. "Each and every one of you."

* * *

Percy had always been captivated by science.

It was something limitless and without measure that was constantly morphing into a new creature that he was fighting desperately to tame. Elements combined to form new species of wonder and they reacted with each other on timed responses that grew familiar and wonderful. What amazed him was that something so simple that could be broken down to a few key ingredients could be so complex when they were all combined together.

Everything was science and he grew to love the idea that he was a product of science as well. That he could be boiled down to oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus and a dash of chance that he was beyond the limits of whatever equation that mundanes knew.

Life was calculated.

And he found it inspiring before he found it terrifying, for everything was easy to understand but himself because everything had an end in science where the equation stopped with an equal sign but he never ended. His equation never seemed to have a scientific boundary and he just didn't die.

His years just weighed effortlessly on his shoulders in the form of wisdom but he, himself, defied all rules of science that all mundanes abided by. If he was not bound by science, what was he?

It was easy to find x when given y but when he was given the impossible, he still could not find himself. It scared him that he was perhaps caught in a formula he would never escape, his life encapsulated between a chemical and magic, refusing to let him go to where the answers lurked. If he was forever imprisoned his his magical immortality, could he really ever be the person of science and logic he imagined?

Even as he asked these questions, he had already handcuffed himself to the burners and beakers, refusing to give up a life of complexity for a life of mundane logic.

* * *

"Elijah," Abel started, his voice low as he spoke through the vent that led directly to his brother's room, "I don't want to marry her."

"Hmm?" Elijah's tone was muffled, reverberating off the metal sides of the vent as it traveled down and through the grates and between the rooms. "Why?"

"I'd like to marry someone that I love." Sighing, Abel drew the brush across the paper he was holding, watching the ink spill out in Korean letters across the parchment. "I just feel...stuck. I can't tell father I don't want to. He worked so hard to arrange this. I don't love her, though. I don't even want to be her friend."

"You're fifteen." Elijah's words were nearly indecipherable through the warping of sound in the vent. "What would you know about love?"

"I guess you're right...but I could say the same about you and you're eighteen...I just don't want to be stuck with her for the rest of my life. I'm sure you understand. I'm nervous," Abel admitted, setting his brush down, "I want to make my own decisions."

"I know you'll figure something out."

"Yeah...I know." Abel licked his lips and looked down at what he had written.

자유

 _Freedom._


	18. Holidays: Shadow World Christmas

**Shadow World Christmases of what could have happened.**

* * *

"Hey, I got this thing for you," Cadyn remarked suddenly, his fingers brushing through his brother's hair affectionately, "For Christmas, I mean, even though Shadowhunters don't really celebrate that."

Connor had been laying across the couch with a book in his hands to keep his Russian sharp, his head using his brother's lap as a pillow. In Cadyn's free hand, he held some other Russian book that Connor had read dozens of times before that the spine had started to tear. Out of all the Russian tales, it had been one of his favourites.

"Really?" Connor said, unsure if he should have expected a gift or be surprised. "I...got you something as well..."

"I hope you didn't spend too much money on it," Cadyn remarked, "Because I don't like it-"

"-When you spend too much money on me," Connor finished, "But you're my brother, so of course I put a little bit extra in it."

"Dork," the other muttered, reaching for a package under the pillow, setting it on Connor's chest. In turn, Connor set down his book to extend his fingertips under the couch as if they had planned when they were going to give their Christmas gifts together. He pulled at it for a moment before sitting up next to Cadyn, setting the package in his lap with a bit of a smile, picking up the gift Cadyn had passed over to him. They were hardly surprised when they had similar ideas, really, and they found it more amusing than anything.

"You first."

"No you first."

"No, it should be you."

"...Fine..." Grinning, Cadyn started to tear open the present, pulling away wrapping paper to reveal an intricate dagger.

"I thought you'd like something personalized," Connor explained, "So I got your-...our favourite model with your name in the hilt. In Russian, of course."

However, Cadyn was frowning. "Damn it."

"What? Don't tell me you don't like it."

With a self-deprecating smile and a bit of a laugh, Cadyn shook his head in amusement. "Perhaps great minds think alike...You can open your gift now, but I'm afraid it won't be much of a surprise."

* * *

"Over there has the best pastries during Christmastime." Pointing over at a building, Caleb smiled in excitement before pulling back instantly to fix his scarf, shivering. The few Shadowhunters that went with him had encouraged him to use a heating rune but he had refused, a decision he was currently regretting. Some white snowflakes dusted his hair and he ran his hands through them before shaking loose strands from his eyes.

"Of course the mundane is excited about this," Elijah muttered under his breath, his voice half muffled by a black mask that covered his mouth and nose. His eyes peered out from under a fringe of blonde hair that he let hang over his face and he crossed his arms, cursing the weather.

Ember had been the only one that had remained unbothered by the cold, fascinated by how it painted the streets and buildings white. She had only opted to wear a creme sweater and a skirt with some leg warmers and boots, earning a few funny looks from some mundanes as they wondered how she wasn't freezing. As they walked through the streets and sidewalks, she reached up to pin her hair back and up into a loose bun, hurrying her pace to catch up with the people. Cheerfully, she laughed when she stepped in a small pile of snow, having to shake her boots off before continuing.

"It really is pretty out here," she said when she had started to keep her pace with Steff, tucking her hands in her pocket, "Wouldn't you say?"

"I've always like the winters," Steff responded, her blue eyes tilted up at the sky as the snow continued to fall, "The ones in London were always the prettiest."

"And over there," Caleb continued, gesturing at a street they had started to pass, "There's a parade on Christmas Eve. Mundanes are like that. We're always celebrating the holidays and whatnot even if it seems funny to everyone else."

"What _is_ Christmas, though?" Abel asked after a moment, stepping towards Caleb in interest.

"Oh, it's this religious thing where mundanes celebrate the birth of Jesus...It's complicated, but I'm sure you've heard of it-"

"Yes, I've taken mundane studies, with the bible and whatnot," Abel responded, glad to be knowledgeable on the subject, "He was the healer and preacher. Do people think he was real?"

"Yeah, a lot of mundanes believe in religion, so to each their own. We have some Shadowhunters that are really religious...but even though Christmas is a religious holiday, I suppose, people that don't believe in Jesus and God still celebrate it," Caleb explained, glancing inside a few shops that radiated the smell of cookies and good food, "My siblings and I would always celebrate Christmas and whatnot."

"Oh, guys, lets steer clear from here," Ember said and grinned for a moment, "I see a bookstore and we'll lose Steff if we pass it."

"It'll only be for a moment," Steff said, her eyes shining as they started to approach it. The library in the Institute was nice, but nothing was ever like a nice, cozy library in the mundane cities. They always smelled like parchment, coffee, and burnt candles. "If...everyone's alright with that..."

"I brought a bit of money." Searching his pocket for his wallet, Abel looked eagerly over at the library. "So we can check it out."

"Besides," Caleb brought up, "There's a Brookstone right next to it that we can check out too."

* * *

Alaric unwrapped the gift from his father, whom had always made an effort to endear himself somehow. He had never been close with him, much less affectionate, and Alaric frowned. It was always the same, expensive quill and he silently wondered if his father really knew him at all.

* * *

"You're joking, right?" Connor snickered, holding up the dagger with a bit of incredulousness. "I swore that I would be original this year and you get me the exact same thing I do?"

"Well, it wasn't a very original thought if we both thought of it," Cadyn said, reaching to trace the Russian letters with his fingertip, "But we'll still be matching so..."

Affectionately, Connor ruffled his brother's hair so it went into his eyes, setting the dagger in his lap as he leaned an elbow against Cadyn's shoulder to perch there. His gaze settled on the daggers and then back on his brother, a certain mirth in his eyes that they both flaunted with delightful passion. It was rare that they were ever seen together without the same spark in their eyes and, on such a merry day, it was impossible for them to be without it. A smile settled on both of their mouths and they sat there for a moment, content with their presents and their presence.

"Next year," Cadyn vowed. "Next year, I'll get you something original."

"Yeah?" The sarcasm in his voice was immeasurable. "Like a personalized stele?"

"Damn, you're not supposed to be that good a predicting things."

"I can't help it." With a modest shrug, Connor merely laughed. "But really...Happy holidays."

* * *

As they headed over, Elijah lifted his head a bit, a little less miserable at the prospect of going inside. Everyone- meaning Caleb- had been going on and on about how nice the shops were during the winter and Christmastime and they hadn't even checked out one. He wasn't exactly interested in many books other than a select few by a select few authours, but if any stores had a nice jacket, then maybe he'd dish out a few extra to buy something of that fashion. Abel had taken after him as well, always spending money on things like that. However, Elijah almost always disagreed with his purchases.

Steff hurried inside of the bookstore, glad to be shielded from the cold in a cozy nook on the corner of the street. Instantly, her hands ghosted across the spines of the books as she walked past the shelves like they were old friends. For a while, really, they had been her only friends.

She glanced back, watching Ember follow Caleb into Brookestone in her curiosity while Abel followed his brother into the bookstore. Steff had never bothered much with giving gifts for Christmas, as it was a custom she was not familiar with, but a good book was always a good present for someone.

It was usually her brother, on holidays, that had received gifts of any sorts, not her.

There were small lamps set through the small bookstore, flickering against the pages like little flames and a nice looking mundane shopkeeper was walking about, making sure people had what they needed. She was old, perhaps in her sixties, Steff observed, and was rather short, stout, and had a pair of reading glasses on that slipped down her nose.

"If there is anything you need," the woman told her kindly and Steff noted her thick Scottish accent, which was both foreign and pleasing to listen to, "You shan't be afraid of asking me. I know this place better than anyone. Where every book is."

"Actually," Steff started, "Do you know where the classics are?"

The woman gave a laugh and ushered Steff down an aisle. "Do I? That's my favourite section. Classics, not all burdened with that nonsense authours write with nowadays. Back when I was little, I had a whole bookshelf of all these classic stories, and not all of them are about the war although the second one really had the authours rattling on about about all those things. That was before my time, though."

"I have read a few of those, like Mila 18. They're quite tragic," Steff answered, glad to be talking about things she was familiar with, "Although I do also love fantasy and old tales."

"As a child, I always adored the Grimm tales. Not that crazy happy ending mush that Disney makes them into."

Steff was slightly unsure what 'Disney' was, but she was sure she had heard the name somewhere. Carefully, she decided not to pry, instead staring at the books in front of her with old familiar titles.

"There was a book I'm sure you would have loved," the old woman started, "But I can't seem to remember the title. It was like a wonderful fairy tale and our world all mixed up. It was based on the bible story of God's children and-...Oh, I'm sure a young girl like you knows what the Nephilim are. You know how they teach it on Sundays."

"Y-yes, of course," Steff stammered, not wanting to dishearten the woman with her lack of religious affiliation, "Church." Instantly, she was reminded of the cat.

"Well, there was this book this one authour wrote in the late...eighteenth century about these Nephilim and how they lived among us and had wonderful magic." Pushing her glasses up her nose, the woman strained to read a title on the shelf before patting Steff endearingly on the back. "Oh, dear, I'm going to get carried away. Books certainly do have nice tales. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

"I will, I'll just be..." Trailing off when the woman disappeared, Steff smiled just a little bit. Mundanes, she forgot, lived such simple lives. Perhaps it was better that she couldn't remember the title. It was dangerous when the worlds mixed.

* * *

Ironically enough, the quill Alaric received from his father was the same quill he used to write his parents that no, he wouldn't be accepting a position on the Clave council and that he'd be travelling to train young Shadowhunters instead.

* * *

Guiltily, Caleb retreated out of Brookstone, his wallet drained after a fit of imprudence that left him with a new pair of high quality headphones that he wanted to use with his new virtual reality headsets. At the rate he was going, he wouldn't have any money left for gifts. Ember had merely spectated while he tried out the different things on display in the store, looking curious, although she didn't have the money to buy such unnecessary electronics, no matter how interesting they were.

The cold air was refreshing and he found that Steff, Abel, and Elijah were already waiting for them by the time they had finished. Steff, naturally, was holding a small bag of a few new novels and Abel was showing his brother some new bookmarks he bought that he called 'artsy and contemporary'. Caleb wasn't sure how something like that could apply to something as boring as a bookmark.

"Are any of you guys too cold?" Ember asked, suddenly remembering that it must be cold for them. "There's a bit of snow. A lot, actually."

"I'm alright to continue looking around," Steff replied cheerfully, her spirits heightened. Abel nodded for both him and Elijah, knowing his brother wouldn't have much of an opinion.

"Then I'll take you all to one of my favourite places," Caleb decided, starting off down the street. "A cafe, and it's really popular."

"So we're just going to follow the mundane?" Elijah complained lightly, huffing behind the mask, which had helped keep him warm.

"Oh, cheer up," Abel reprimanded, "If we were following you, we'd get lost."

"It's nearly _Christmas_ ," Caleb said enthusiastically, "Lighten up a bit. Hey, after we eat, lets go check out that new Gamestop around the corner. I heard they have cool deals right now. Maybe there'll be good Christmas gifts there."

With a slow shake of her head, Ember followed after him in amusement, glancing back at Steff and the rest to make sure they didn't fall behind. "Typical. I think we have to prepare for a long day."


	19. Chapter 19

**Really short but I did these literally in the past hour.**

 **...**

 **What happens behind closed doors**

* * *

Frowning, Cole leaned back against the wall, leaning his head against the edge of his bed. In his hands, he sorted through random papers and clutter that bothered him, discarding random junk mail to the side that was addressed to him. A photograph fluttered to the ground and he looked at it without much curiosity, picking it up to stare at it.

He thought he had lost it, although he wouldn't have cared. It was the only photograph he had from his childhood and it was a bad one at that. He was only perhaps twelve or thirteen and it was him in front of the Academy, a book in his hand. He was glancing to the side so his face was a little blurry but he had never smiled for photos so Cole didn't see the point in being able to make out his features anyway. His academy suit looked grey in the faded quality of the photograph and he raised his eyebrows.

The edge of the photo was worn and it was familiar but he had never been nostalgic so he was glad no one had seen the photo. It wasn't like him to ponder about such things and he wouldn't like it if someone saw him looking so soft, as if he were human or something despicable like that.

Slowly, he tore the photo in half and discarded it with the junk mail. One less thing from the past was a good thing and, as he let the mail and photo fall into the rubbish bin, a drop of blood dripped on the ground.

* * *

Rose twisted to the side in front of the mirror, her hands on her hips and her chin lifted as she gazed at herself. There was a dress slung across her arm, freshly pressed, and it smelled faintly of lilac. A few stray hairs obscured her vision and she brushed them away, her eyebrows drawn together and her mouth pursed slightly. It was often that she found herself like this, gazing at herself with the same unsatisfied expression.

Her fingers traveled across her side, pinching at the skin at her already petite waist and suddenly wishing she was thinner. Any slighter, and it would look like she would break- a perfect golden-haired doll with a fragile face and joints.

Slowly, her fingers drew away from her skin and instead to her legs where she slowly shifted to try and see if it was her mind or the mirror that made her legs wider than she wanted. Ah, if only there was some faerie potion for that. Really, there probably was but it was less about actual appearance and more about the one she saw in her head. She liked her eyes and her hair and herself but if she stared long enough, there was always something. Perhaps if her waist was not cinched enough by the sashes of her dresses, people would not want to talk to her anymore. And she loved to talk.

A knock sounded on the door and she smiled wide at the idea of company. Casting a look of doubt at herself in the mirror, she shook it away quickly to slip her dress on and start to pull on a pair of stockings.

"Coming!" she called out joyfully and reached to cover the mirror with a blanket.

* * *

Aspen had given two options: a public punishment or one in privacy. The faerie, prideful, picked to be alone in the woods with him, not wanting to be seen in such a compromising situation.

"Now, we don't take treason lightly. If I see you talking to that werewolf pack again-..." Keeping his tone low, Aspen kept his free hand against the faerie's chest, his knees on either side of the faerie below him. "You just look at these scars and remember that we don't fuck around with people like you, got that? You see those scars and remember that we'll kill you the next time you think of sharing private information."

The faerie squirmed slightly and Aspen caught his hand, twisting it back to give him access to his wrist. It was a game, really, and he enjoyed painting the faerie's arm with such bright shades of red. Lines decorated his skin and Aspen smiled, dropping the dagger and drawing his finger through the paint. It stained their skin and he longed for a sheet of paper to draw such pretty pictures and he brushed his fingers against the faerie's cheek because why not, it was so much prettier that way. So he pressed a finger against the faerie's lips because taste it, is it good because it looks pretty and the faerie gagged, gasping as Aspen's other hand pressed at his throat.

"Do you like that?" Aspen teased and why, it was such a fun game and the faerie gasped for breath once his hands were drawn back. Slowly, Aspen moved to sit between the faerie's legs instead, pulling him closer to kiss him because why not and it tasted like sucking on a coin. "That was for being quiet. M'kay?"

The faerie nursed his cut arm to his chest.

"Now, this is our little secret, right?" Aspen said, standing up and smiling again, angelically. "A little bit of my love to you. I have to be _good_ and if you tell anyone what bad I've done, you'll really have bad coming for you. Got that?" Raising a finger to his lips, he winked as he turned away. "Good game, sweetheart. But I win."

* * *

It wasn't enough to be effortlessly the best.

Of course, it looked that way with his natural talent and endless intellect, but Mason never wasted his time on thinking that he was ever 'enough'. It wouldn't be enough until he was the best and he didn't think people would want to see how much work he put into being better than they were. Because he was and there was no denying that and anyone who was anybody knew that he would someday be on the top.

That was how it was always meant to be. So sometimes that meant staying in the training room until ungodly hours of the night, far past when most people had gone to bed and he trained. Diligently. His swords grew dull with the constant use and he sharpened them casually in the daytime. Mason drew his hand back in front of the target, narrowing his eyes and throwing the dagger expertly.

Another perfect shot. He didn't expect less. In fact, he had no reason to be anything other than the perfect Shadowhunter. He reached back down the get another dagger, his focus growing by the second. The dagger was smooth and cold in his hand and he flicked his wrist with a careful precision that only Shadowhunters understood, that only he understood, and the dagger wedged in the target a mere centimeter away from the other one. _Of course,_ he thought in the midst of the empty room, _a perfect throw._

* * *

Contrary to his name, Park could never really park his mind. It was always rambling on and on about his passions- skating- and silence was something he rarely got.

He was used to the constant chatter in his mind as he walked, though, different voices muttering things that hardly made sense. _Accident on Lake Drive. Miscarriage. Suicide on La Vienne. Job offer. Divorce. Proposal. Spilled coffee. Murder._

He didn't say what he heard anymore, though, knowing that the future was never concrete. Sometimes, however, when he was in his room, he'd sit in the very far corner on his bed and put headphones on and play music loud, so loud that he thought he'd go deaf and sometimes, he didn't mind the idea of going deaf. The snare and hi-hats and cymbals of the music broke through his thoughts as they permeated through the walls like deadly gas and intoxicated him with bad premonitions.

There was this ringing in his ears after each song would end and he nodded his head to the pulsing sound of nothing. He had never thought of himself as unhappy, but there was no denying the annoying feeling of everything and every fate at once crashing down on him every single time he stepped outside and looked at the people. So he found a way to cope by drowning them out with the sound of a skateboard hitting the pavement and the blaring music in the quiet of his bedroom where no one would see except himself. Because sometimes it was nice to be the only one that existed in such a vast, vast world of so many story lines.

He smiled a little at his situation, keeping it to himself and trying to block out the voices and instead listen to the beat of his own drum.


	20. Chapter 20

**So part of the reason why I asked for song lyrics was like "yey I can write some stuff based on the song/character"**

 **And wow look at the amazing variety of songs for: caspian nyx aspen aspen nyx caspian nyx aspen rose nyx aspen caspian aspen aspen caspian (quinn is dead to me). Amazing. I have never seen such variety in my life. I mean, you know, not that I'm complaining.**

 **Also sorry if it's like edgy because like...all the songs are all like angsty. I really don't like how these came out but I decided to post it anyway since I spent too long writing it to not post it. I've actually had this done for like 2 weeks but I was 'ehh' with it so I didn't post it till now. Also didn't write too much on Cas since I didn't want to write something wrong eekk That would be bad.**

 **Also, the song lyrics are a little bit awkwardly placed haha...So sorry if they just are jutting out with no real purpose.**

* * *

Aspen couldn't move. His eyelashes brushed against the fabric tied around his face and drew in a sharp gasp. His nails scraped against a rock as he reached forward, his hands having been bound in front of him. Warm breath drew across his cheek and he nearly leaned into like it was comforting, that presence.

"I'm gonna ask you again," Nyx murmured, trailing his fingers across his cheek to remind him of where he was. "Did you steal the dagger?"

He shook his head. He didn't, truly, but Nyx had never believed him. He couldn't lie, not with his blood, but Nyx _never_ believed him. So he felt hands on his shoulders, the voice coming from behind him, and he nearly jumped at the sensation. Everything was so quiet and it felt like he was floating because there was absolutely nothing except for the hands on his shoulders and the faint sound of the birds in the distance.

"Liar," Nyx breathed, a low growl beneath his words. "You know you did and you better say or you're really gonna get it, you know." One of his hands slid from his shoulder to tighten it on his arm. "So you gotta say in three-"

"-I didn't, I swear."

"Two."

Aspen shook his head, trying to pull his wrists apart as they hurt and chaffed and felt raw under the twine.

"One."

He opened his mouth to protest and warmth flooded his shoulder and it was hot, so hot and he tilted his chin back to cry out, lurching forward to pull away. And he ripped away and the ground was cold as he fell sideways and his shoulder was wet and warm and dead leaves stuck through his shirt to the wetness that dripped down his arm. He realized the pain a few moments after the warmth, like a papercut, and it was sharp at first, feeling like a dagger nicking his skin until it pushed deeper and deeper until it was so deep that it radiated through his entire right side and the blindfold was wet with tears he didn't know he had spilled. The twine at his wrists bit deeper into his skin.

And it was so painful and raw and his thoughts raced in some strange anticipation for another one because _'Yes, you can mark me and I'll cherish it. Do what you'd like, I'm everyone's for taking.'_

Nyx spat out a bloody mouthful onto the ground next to him, wiping his lips.

"That's gonna leave a scar," he stated, leaning over Aspen to pull the fabric away from the bite marks on his shoulder. "Pity." Slowly, he moved to untie the fabric on his eyes and Aspen blinked and looked over and his shoulder was red and he stared at it and moaned in nausea. "And you'll listen to me now, right? Or you're gonna get another one of those and-"

"It was Joan, I swear, she took it to sell in the Towns," Aspen said quickly, frozen in his spot as he stared up at him. "I swear, I swear, it was her."

"Oh?" Softening, Nyx smiled and lovingly pulled him to his feet to press a kiss to his cheek because he earned it. "You're so good. We can play nicer games if you're like this more."

"...Really?"

Aspen never asked but he never saw Joan after that again.

 _I'm a slave to your game_  
 _I'm just a sucker for pain_  
 _I wanna chain you up_  
 _I wanna tie you down_  
 _I'm just a sucker for pain_

He was very still by choice this time, letting them position his arms because they wanted him just right, like a little puppet. Lips pressed against his jaw and hissed whispers praised him, praised only him and he smiled. "Pretty, so pretty," the whispers said and he leaned into them, his fingers tightening into fabric. "So pretty, such a pretty faerie." His green eyes were very wide because he wanted to see how he was doing, if everyone was smiling as well because yes, he was good and smart and pretty and he knew how to sit still and swallow back the rising bile in his throat.

Teeth worried his skin and a cold hand pressed against his back and trailed up the edges of his wings and his nerves were alight with unease and he nearly jerked away because it was an unwelcome visitor. He didn't like it and he just mouthed it but the girl in front of him mouthed lovely phrases against his skin that made him shake, he was uncomfortable and nervous and the person behind him- who was it- was so close and kept touching his wings over and over and over again.

Was this what it meant to be adored? Loved even?

Fingertips pressed into his wrist, so hard that nails left crescent shaped scars long after they adored his skin, kissing it. Nails kissed his skin. Nails scratched it too, bruising the surface with little blood vessels crying under his wrist. And it was wonderful, the sting in his wrists and the small twitching of his skin like a cat as he tensed and relaxed under the pressure of fingertips that sank into his skin, testing it.

The girl drew back when someone pushed her away and someone else replaced her, lips grazing his wrist and guiding his arms around the person's neck like "Yes, Aspen, just like that. This is how you're supposed to be. Shh, don't speak. Only when you're spoken to, just be-"

Silent, Aspen nodded and suddenly his face was shoved into the ground and he wasn't confused but he let them and that was what was right. Splinters in his cheek. His hand braced against the ground and he stared at the forest in the distance and eyes, eyes watching him, judging, savouring because yes, "Look at me," he wanted to say. "Look at me because I am pretty and watch me be pretty for you, at your hands, because I am adored."

 _Running through the parking lot_  
 _He chased me and he wouldn't stop_  
 _Tag, you're it, tag, tag, you're it_  
 _Grabbed my hand, pushed me down_  
 _Took the words right out my mouth  
_ _Tag, you're it, tag, tag, you're it_

Life caught up to Caspian faster than he could run away.

Even if he could have seen it hurtling at him like a freight train, he wouldn't have turned his back. It just wasn't how he was taught. He'd fight off the force, the unimaginable force with anger and fury and all the hurt that gathered in his back and spread through his veins and kept him on edge.

In the Towns, no one ever listened and, in turn, he didn't have to either. He let his dowsing dagger lead him to the next pool of blood that would gather around someone's feet as they scrambled away from him. Sometimes he'd end up on his back, panting because he couldn't walk away from the two, four, six people that wanted to kill him. That wanted to take his dagger and slice his throat enough to hurt, but not enough to bleed out because they'd never kill him.

No, killing him would be too nice and nice was something Caspian never got or learned.

Rather, he cursed life for his misfortune, blaming the weakness he refused to address and the anger that he never kept in check and his inability to see more than three feet in front of him. If there was a cliff, he would have gladly walked off because his compass for life had been destroyed before his moral compass was ever found and the dagger was still his dowsing rod.

Again.

Slick blood on his hands because he couldn't, wouldn't stop fighting as if stopping would mean giving up. Everyone on the streets turned into enemies because who were they to judge him? It was like living in a candlelight, only able to see that the path led on but he couldn't see at all where he was headed. It was silly to him, ever thinking that things could be different. Cruelty by then had become his only friend, the only listener that would hear the words he cursed. They were carried off by the wind.

It wasn't as if anything he had to say would change his situation.

Things that were lost could not be found so easily.

 _Who are you to change this world?_  
 _Silly boy!_  
 _No one needs to hear your words._  
 _Let it go._

Some stupid werewolf had been bothering him again, jeering behind his back. Caspian glared at him with a look that usually would have scared those younger than him at the Unseelie, but the stupid, stupid wolf just grinned back with that same dumb gleam in his eyes.

People that were as dimwitted as the werewolf weren't able to comprehend when they were in trouble. Sometimes, Caspian could tell that the people around him thought he had a death wish, starting so many fights and leaving with too many cuts to count when all he had was a dagger against a group of savages. He was smarter, faster, stronger, but it was not enough against groups. And maybe he did have a little bit of a death wish.

But no, if he wanted to die, he'd climb to the werewolf's ego and jump to his IQ for a quick death and one of a bit of humour that lent a smirk to Caspian's mouth. Quietly, a dagger fitted itself against his palm and he stared at the wolf with a challenging look.

He wasn't sure who dealt the first blow but Caspian reached out to grab the werewolf's hair and instead found his hand sinking into fur, the Changing person morphing under his fingertips. The werewolf's snout elongated to fit the rows of teeth that salivated and drooled onto the already wet ground from earlier rains. _Hah, coward. Changing into the dog he is_. And with no small amount of hate, he lunged at the wolf, wrapping his arms tight around it's neck as he pulled it to the ground, watching as it's legs buckled underneath itself. It was hard to grasp, though, and he was left with just fur in his fingers when the wolf shook itself up, growling and barking.

Launching off the floor, the werewolf attempted to snap at his arm, clipping his hand with the edge of his tooth but Caspian knocked him to the ground, hacking away with his dagger, trying to tear through thick dog skin and matted fur.

Hate seethed from the cut on his hand.

He was hot all over, shivering in the heat as he cut away again and again till his hands were red and the wolf whined as it struggled to get away. The wounds slowly started to heal up, but not fast enough as Caspian went to push the dagger into it's shoulder and-

A traitor to his body, his back spasmed, this unimaginable pain running up his spine like a dagger sawing through his skin again and again and he gasped, his hand losing grip of the dagger, of the werewolf, and he pressed his hand against the ground.

"What are you looking at?" he snapped at a few people staring and they quickly started off. Angry, he picked up his dagger to shove it into a sheath. He looked down.

His hands were very red and wet.

 _You cut it away_  
 _And you filled me up with hate_  
 _Into the silence you sent me_  
 _Into the fire consumed_

There was hardly anything Aspen wouldn't do to hear someone compliment him.

"You-"

"-Are-"

"-Smart and-"

"-Pretty and-"

"-Good at this, Aspen. I'm proud of you."

Were they complimenting him or were they complimenting _him_?

He wasn't sure who ' _him'_ was anyway.

 _All you need's a couple more condiments_  
 _And a hundred thousand dollars for some compliments_

Part of him wanted to belong the way he had belonged in the Unseelie, but he didn't think he'd be taken in by anyone.

Anyone who did want him in some faction would be crazy.

They didn't see how messed up and wrong and psychotic his thoughts were because annoyed glances and a chin held high disguised everything.

He wasn't afraid, and he certainly wasn't weak.

Just a little bit too broken in the head to fit all the jagged pieces into one place.

 _They think I'm crazy but they don't know the feeling_  
 _They're all around me,_  
 _Circling like vultures_  
 _They wanna break me and wash away my colors_  
 _Wash away my colors_

Aspen always pulled off his cloak first, using one delicate motion to discard it onto the floor so his wings could be viewed at their full brilliance. He was never shy in going slow, letting their eyes roam over him as he turned to pull his shirt off, carefully lifting it above his head and pulling it from the back so his wings didn't catch.

Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he raised his chin, ensuring he was still pretty. From the curve of his cheekbones to his jaw as his collarbones sloped under his throat in a pleasing manner, he'd watch himself. He would curl his shoulders forward a little, admiring how his wings caught the light and the other person would let out a breath of appreciation.

It was his job to look pleasing and ever line of his body had to look perfect and smooth and sharp and elegant and he looked back at them, his lips parted because oh, the wanton look they loved simply melted their hearts and he gave a demure smile.

Then he would read them, understanding what they wanted and whether he should lay down first or let them or whether he should beckon them over and let them work at the button and zipper of his black pants. They were often covered by his cloak or too dark to see and he wished for people to see him, really see him because oh, his legs were long and lithe and lovely and up close, it was easier to see how his chest rose and fell with each breath and why cover it with fabric when people could appreciate beauty.

"I am not a museum exhibit just for looking at," he said once. "I'm yours for tonight."

And, often times, they wanted to cover his eyes with a ribbon. Perhaps, he speculated, they just wanted a faceless body to appreciate, one that had no soul or substance. It was easier to abuse now and forget later, Aspen inferred.

Even so, he had always considered his eyes his best trait.

 _Take off my clothes_  
 _Oh, bless me, father_  
 _Don't ask me why_  
 _You're right_  
 _You're right_

Joining the Hunt had been the first step to moving on, although Caspian hardly called it that. It was a distraction mainly, and hell knew he needed lots of those.

Used to his previous high status in the Unseelie, it was disappointing to have to start out on the bottom again but it was better than nothing. He had the stars to sleep under again, the forest to rustle around him at night, and a staff in his hand that made the pain in his back just a little more tolerable.

He wasn't happy, though, which was apparent if anyone saw him. There was always this bitter look in his expression, like he'd rather be elsewhere or doing something else. It was easier to be like that than let anyone in. If someone got too close, they could be horrified at what they see since inside, he thought himself ugly and twisted because his back was scarred like the inside of his mind.

Now and again, he'd get questions about his blood. About his purity.

"If you were as pure as you claim you are," people would say, "Then you'd have wings."

Caspian merely straightened his cloak, shot them a dirty look, and continued on. A few times- or more than a few times- he got into skirmishes but it was different than in the Unseelie because killing wasn't always allowed. And there were these people called supervisors that broke them apart sometimes and scolded them and told them to stay in line and when were faeries ever supposed to stay in line? It was worse that this one supervisor, this one stupid supervisor would annoy him and touch his back as if he knew but he didn't and hell, Caspian sometimes just wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

The days were like different hues of paint smeared together to create an everlasting night that settled on his senses. Things were easier to decipher, uncluttered by the dirty and messy life of the cities. Everything was very clear and he reached out to brush the rocks with his fingertips as he stood as if he were stalking something, his hand holding onto his staff.

Joining hadn't changed the distrust that flickered in his gaze from time to time though, doing better to hide it at some times than others. Distancing himself from everyone, like in the Unseelie Court, was a strategy he kept when he wasn't at war, finding it easier to just build a barricade between him and others.

At the rate he was going, at the rate his eye was darkening, the Hunt started to become a place of belonging. Not a home, though. A home meant comfort and he wasn't sure if he knew what that was, if he'd ever know what that was.

It just wasn't natural, to trust. To feel comfort. To be...content.

 _The bridges are burning, the heat's on my face_  
 _Making the past an unreachable place_  
 _Pouring the fuel, fanning the flames_  
 _I know, this is the point of no return_  
 _I won't turn around_

Attraction, to Aspen, was always ephemeral; there one moment, and gone the next.

People were so predictable and boredom always started to creep at the edge of his mind. He found no sin in admiring others for split second, a snap in his infinity, before moving on the next day.

Caspian was drunk on the idea that his life was one great fight: him against the world.

Even in the Hunt, everything was a battle and he had stopped fighting for respect a long while ago. Maybe, he thought, he was just fighting for some quiet and a place to fight for.

Would a life of spontaneity ever get boring? Aspen wasn't sure. He was so stuck in his way, his way in the Towns and he didn't think he could stop. Maybe it was an addiction of sorts.

Something cold and sadistic always brewed inside of Caspian's head and it drove him crazy sometimes to have so many thoughts racing in his head with no way to express them but with his staff in his hand and a knife in the other. It was as if he could bleed out words for everyone to see but everyone seemed to recoil instead. Good. He was glad they did.

Aspen viewed people like drinks: cheap, a bit of fun, and a cause of a nasty hangover to follow. They all tasted different, some sweeter than others. But all of them seemed to leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

Caspian only wished for people to shut up, hell, just shut up because he could hear the whispers about, at, behind him as he walked. It was like sipping acid and it burned his throat.

 _Get me a drink I get drunk off one sip just so I can adore you  
_ _I want the entire street out of town just so I can be alone with you  
_ _Now go when your ready my head_ _s getting heavy pressed against your arm  
_ _I adore you_

"Is it a bad thing?" Aspen asked, thinking for a very, very long time, "That I've changed?"

Caspian leaned back, the roof uncomfortable against his hands but he didn't mind much. In fact, it wasn't really something he fully noticed, both the roughness and the chilled breeze, and he started to speak. "That depends on you. And whether you want to change."

"I don't know. I didn't have many feelings before." Pausing, Aspen licked his lips. Things were suddenly very complicated and so many thoughts mixed in his head and all he could muster up was, "I'm not sure if I like them or not." And he realized how terrible it sounded but he just sat there quietly, awaiting a response. Would he not be pleased? Would he be angry?

"Then... then..." It wasn't like Caspian to be hesitant with most things, only with talks of personal thoughts, and Aspen found it incredibly endearing. "If it's my fault you've changed and you don't like it then that's bad."

"I don't think things like that are your fault, you know." For a moment, he tried to think of a word. His mind scanned his vocabulary and he ended up saying the first thing he could think of, regardless of how ridiculous it sounded. "I adore you. I couldn't think it's your fault or you did anything bad." _Adore._ That was a funny word.

Caspian seemed to think so as well and he looked nearly surprised at his usage of it. His eyes turned unreadable, a sign he was thinking and thinking and Aspen tried to read him but found that he could not understand the words in his expression. It was always like that and it was refreshing and nice and frustrating and new and he tilted his head towards him to stare.

 _Adore_.

A very funny word but, somehow, very fitting.

* * *

Mundanes, to Rose, were somehow so much nicer than all the Shadowhunters made out to be. They didn't kill people, nor did they attend meetings about wars, and they certainly didn't have to worry about strange creatures coming after them in the night. Oh, or Church getting mad at them.

They were very simple, with nice eyes that crinkled when they smiled from years of laughing over screenshots and funny pictures of cats. There were no scars on their arms or knives hidden in their sleeves and they simply talked to her about the weather and fashions and boys and movies. The mundane girls liked her so much that they invited her everywhere, asking her for fashion advice, hair advice, makeup advice, boy advice and Rose would giggle in response and answer enthusiastically. Shadowhunters, in turn, seemed to always tell her to get her head out of the clouds as if she was delusional and she didn't understand why they were like that.

And the mundane girls touched her gold curls and called them pretty. She was glad, so glad that they liked her because, for a moment, she could pretend that they were like her and they were simply girls in a mall that needed dresses for the dance.

There was no dance for her to go to, but who was she to say no to a new dress?

"You're so gorgeous," a girl would smile cheerfully and Rose felt a bit of relief rush to her head. "You _have_ to tell me where you get your hair done."

"Oh, I curl it myself," Rose answered, touching them daintily. "I can teach you sometime."

"God, you're a lifesaver. My place sometime?"

"You're so skinny," a girl would remark, taking Rose's arm to pull her into a store. "You _have_ to tell me what you eat. You seriously have my dream body."

"Oh, just healthy things, really." Rose thought for a moment, setting a hand against her waist, tapping her fingers against it lightly. "I mean, I'm still working on it."

"You're so dedicated. I wish I could be like that."

"You're so short," a girl would critique, wrinkling her nose as she pulled a pair of heels off a shelf. "You _have_ to try these one. They'll give you legs for days."

"Oh?" Rose glanced down at her dainty pumps, hardly scuffed from their occasional wear. She knew she was petite, but she hadn't ever thought it was a problem. "I guess I can try them."

"You'll look amazing in them. I can tell."

Was that what she was supposed to be? Tall, lithe, and a gorgeous blonde barbie for them to dress up? Of course she wanted to be called gorgeous and, in a quick thought, she slipped into the heels and admired herself in the mirror. This bit of satisfaction settled in her chest as she looked over herself. Yes, that was what was missing. Her friends gave a clap of appreciation, nudging her shoulder.

"There," they praised. "That's perfect."

 _You know that we are living in a material world_  
 _And I am a material girl_

* * *

 **Sorry Rose's is kind of out of place.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Some AU at a uni because I was bored**

* * *

"Stressed?"

Sitting alone at a table in the campus gardens, a few chapters deep into a book, Steff looked up at the person who had spoken, giving a slight smile in a friendly fashion. She had never known Percy all too well, but he had always been kind to her and she found no reason to shrug him off, so she bookmarked her page and set down her book. "A little."

"I heard your class is working on a new project for the final grade section," Percy said, fixing his scarf with the hand that wasn't holding a textbook. "I was thinking of taking documentary journalism next year as a fun class if I don't study abroad. I tend to be a little bit disorganized at times, though, so I'm trying to at least set my schedule straight for next year."

"You should take it," Steff encouraged, "Although...I might be a bit biased. I enjoy writing and film. You're a-" she squinted to read the words on the textbook in his hand, "-Science major. Well, you could do a documentary on something-"

"-Sciency? Yeah, I guess I could. I know you're taking that botany class, though, so you can't be too unfamiliar with some environmental science courses and whatnot."

"Ah, that's just for fun...I'm really mainly focusing on my writing classes."

"Oh?" He raised his eyebrows in interest. "What's your topic for your documentary?"

Flustered slightly, Steff glanced away. "It's-...It'll sound funny if I say it, but it's about experiencing and seeing different types of abuse as a child and how it affects you as you get older. I'm still looking for people to interview for personal experience sections and then-"

"Some specialists and then filler and anecdotes?" Percy guessed, considering her topic thoughtfully. "It's an interesting topic."

"You think so?"

"If you need someone to interview, I can free up some of my time."

Raising a hand to shield her from the sun, Steff watched him hesitantly. "Really-? Are you sure? A lot of people don't want to do it because it can get kind of personal..."

Percy brushed off her concern. "Don't worry about it. I'd like to help."

* * *

"Aspen-...What-..?" Finn rubbed his eyes tiredly, gazing from the door of the bathroom. "What are you doing at this ungodly hour? Not another one of your escapades trying to drown the fish again, I hope. Shia LaBetta wasn't too happy about that."

Aspen mumbled to answer, kneeling in front of the toilet, his elbows perched on the seat. A bit of saliva rolled from his lip and he spat, grabbing a tissue to wipe his mouth. Black hair was plastered to his forehead from sweat and a red mark- lipstick or a scratch, perhaps- was bright on his cheek. His jacket had slipped partially from his shoulders and Finn walked in to pull it off him gently, sighing. He had never known how to deal with such things, besides watch, and he frowned.

"Did you throw up?"

"Mm-.." Slowly, Aspen shook his head, his lips parted in nausea. "I just feel like shit. Which is funny because I never feel awful."

"You're always out doing scandalous things and you never invite me. I could always be your helper. You know, follow you around so you don't drink too much." Finn flung Aspen's jacket onto his bed, drawing his mouth to the side. He straightened his own shirt, which was a bit rumpled from his sleep, but Aspen had once told him it looked adorably messy so he didn't mind it. "You get lucky? You know, you score any girls? Or guys, for that matter?"

"Ah-...Well, your brother-"

"That's not funny, Aspen. I will personally get a hitman to...kill you or something if you joke about that again," Finn remarked, pausing as if to think of another threat. "Or I'll let our _glorious_ roommate know that you've been making trouble and he'll certainly tell the RA on you."

Sitting back against the wall, Aspen made a face. "Sol would never do that. Not while it's my turn to pay the dorm rent."

"Well, then after."

"Why are you bullying me? Me, the sickly roommate that can't remember a thing from this night?" He paused in another fit of queasiness, a headache rising like a nail drilling at his temples. "I couldn't even find my shirt. I think I took this from Zander's closet or something."

"Who?"

"No one. Just some pup. A jail-bait chicken or something."

"A what?"

"God damn it, Finn. If you don't know what something means, just look at a dictionary." Rolling his eyes, Aspen pushed himself to his feet unsteadily. "You can go back to bed, you know."

"I know." It was never like Finn to be so deprived of energy that he immediately started into their bedroom to slip into his bed, no longer completely surprised by Aspen's night adventures. He rolled over, knowing that at that rate, he'd never get to sleep. Not when it was almost four hours till his work shift at the fitness center where he'd open up the gym in the morning- who the hell would even go to the gym that early in the morning? God, if he only knew...His phone lit up with a few emails and he pulled the covers over his head, planning on savouring the remainder of time he had to sleep and sleep and sleep and-...God damn it.

He sat up groggily. "Oh, Aspen. By the way. There's this Stephanie girl or whatever that stopped by. Asked if she could do an interview for her...documentary journalism class."

Aspen called back something muffled and Finn rolled his eyes, falling back down on the sheets.

"Her number is on the bathroom counter. And no, don't get too excited. She's blonde."

* * *

Tapping her lip with her pen, Rose watched the professor talk on about something to do with plants and chemical composition in terms that flew over her head. She had signed up for a botany class thinking she'd be able to put her green thumb to use, but found it more or less lackluster.

She reached into her satchel to pull out a compact, flipping it open to gaze at herself for a minute. Frowning at a red mark on her cheek, she reached for a pad to press powder over it. The teacher mentioned something about a project and she slipped the compact away to jot down some notes. Her eyes wandered over to catch Steff's gaze and smiled over at her.

She twisted a curl of hair around her finger at the idea of a project, knowing they usually had some grand thing to do for the rest of the semester to show what they had learned through the year. Although she found it difficult to pay attention, she was sure that she'd be able to wing it, especially with Steff in her group. Sometimes Steff seemed so smart and she had such a good memory, Rose didn't understand how she wasn't in a more advanced program.

"Hmm," Steff started once the lecture was over, leaning against where Rose sat. "I was thinking about the analysis of petrified forests. I always thought they were neat, like they were stuck in time."

Rose pursed her lips at the idea, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "Well, we can do _anything_ as long as it involves chemical processes, so why not focus on goldenseal?"

"Does petrified forests sound too boring?" Steff replied anxiously, starting out behind Rose. "Photoperiodism in different plants maybe?"

"Oh, now that does sound interesting." Swiping a bit of gloss across her lips, Rose pocketed it and pondered over the idea. "We can included irises as long-day plants, poinsettias as short-day, and...dandelions for day-neutral flowers. Wouldn't that be just splendid? I have some of the seeds at my dorm. We can compare averages with current to support claims."

"Seems like you've already planned it out," Steff laughed slightly, adjusting the bag on her shoulder as she walked down the hall to where it opened to the campus. "I'll do the write up then? And chart things...Just make sure you keep controls and variables in check."

"Oh, I will. It'll be a success. Trust me."

"I'm sure it will b-"

"I'll get started right away! My next class is in-" Rose pulled out her phone to check the time, "-Two hours so I'll have enough time to think over it more."

"Sounds good," Steff replied with a smile, starting off to a different building.

* * *

"You don't mind if I film it, do you?" Steff asked nervously, tapping her pen against her pad out of habit. She glanced over at the tripod and then back to Aspen expectantly.

"Not at all," he answered and smiled. "I've been told I look good in front of a camera."

When she couldn't think of a suitable response, she reached over to turn the camera on. Sitting back in her chair, she scribbled down a few notes on her paper, not wanting to miss anything. If there was anything she hated, it was being disorganized and it comforted her to know that at least one thing was in order. Looking up at him, she cleared her throat, feeling as if she were impeding on his privacy even though he had agreed to be recorded.

"Can you introduce yourself? Just name and what you're here for?" she started, crossing her legs.

Aspen smiled, his eyes sparkling. "Right. I'm Aspen. And this is my third year at this school," he said, tucking a bit of hair behind his ear. "And I'm majoring in gender studies."

"Good. And you know why you're being interviewed?"

"Uh, you said it was an interview for a documentary you're making on abuse. So I assume you'll be asking for my opinion."

"More specifically, I wanted to talk about how childhood abuse affects people in adulthood, so I wanted to be able to talk about yourself for a bit," Steff said, writing down a few questions when Aspen was silent. She flipped to the next page before setting the pen against her lip lightly as she thought. "It might be a bit...personal at points so if you want to pause the session at any point feel free to say so." Calming her nerves, she lifted her eyes to watch him. "There were rumours around campus that you had been...sexually abused repeatedly as a child by your legal guardian. Did you want to talk about that?"

For a moment, Aspen narrowed his eyes, leaning back. "What? You mean like raped?"

"Yeah," Steff swallowed. "That's what I meant."

"No. I wasn't- not really. Statutory maybe, but I never made an effort to stop it."

Shifting in her seat uncomfortably, she nodded a few times, trying to keep her collectedness. "Well, did you ever feel like it was done against your will? How did that affect you growing up?"

"I didn't want it. But it's not like I said no." He looked over at the side, studying the wall like he didn't know what to say before finally looking back at the camera. His mood had changed considerably and the air was thick with silence between his sentences. "When that kind of thing happens, you kind of get used to being used, right? It's like people do what they want and you just follow orders, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah..." Steff drew in a sharp breath. "I know what you mean. How has this affected how you live today? Does this affect-" she stared at her questions, "-Your, um...friendships or relationships?"

"I can't hold steady relationships. It's just not something...I'm capable of. Of course, when everyone adores me, it doesn't really matter," he said with a hint of humour before sobering. "I hate not being in control of myself. I could never belong to anyone and people, frankly, bore me. I've done all the-..." He paused, glancing over at her. "How graphic am I allowed to be?"

She tried to not flush in embarrassment. "Just not too...crude."

"Well, I've been coaxed into having sex ever since I was...what? Eleven? Twelve? So now that I'm older, it turned more into something that I need...for validation, rather than for the actual thing itself. I've always known that. I just don't say it. It doesn't sound good to say out loud. But if you're trying to figure out if I'm scarred for life or something, my answer is no. I'm not."

"Alright," she nodded, blinking a few times. "Um, I just have one last question. Would you ever go to court against the person-"

"People," he corrected, leaning forward in his seat.

She cleared her throat. "Against the...people that committed...what was it that you said? Um..." She flipped through her notes. "Statutory rape?"

"I won't go to court against anyone ever. I don't need help," he said and, as if having a startling thought, stood up. "Actually, I'd like to have the visuals blurred and my name edited out-"

"You want to be anonymous-?"

"...That's what I mean," he said and gathered his things to leave, starting out with the camera still rolling.

* * *

Flipping through some mail for the dorm room, Finn rolled his eyes at the junk letters, tearing up a strip and dropping it into his fish's tank. Dumbly, the betta started to treat it like food, swimming up to it and attempting to eat it with no avail.

"Stupid fish. That's why your name is Shia LaBetta," Finn scolded, reaching in and pulling out the slimy strip of the letter. He grimaced and tossed it into the trash can, sifting through the rest of the mail. Coming across a strange letter, he flipped to the back, his curiosity burning even more when it wasn't addressed to him.

God, why were his roommates always getting interesting mail when all he got were dumb catelogues for 'spiritual warehouses' that advertised 'potato sack racing equipment- jump now for Jesus!' He swore he had emailed them at least four times for them to stop sending him buyer lists but they either never received them or deleted them upon arrival.

"Aspen!" He called out, annoyed when he got no response. "There's a letter for you. It's from a doctor. Are you dying?" Finn held it up to the light. "You better not be. Remember, rent is still on you."

* * *

"Okay, recording in three, two, one," Steff nodded and sat down when the light of the camera flashed on. "Alright, can you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

Percy considered the question for a moment. "Well, I'm Percy. A lot of people right off the bat always say 'Oh, like Percy Jackson, right?' but I've never been too fond of those books. I'd say more like a really humble Ender Wiggins with a better sense of humour-...Sorry, I'm going off topic, aren't I? Anyway, I'm studying biotech and chemical manufacturing and it's the beginning of my fourth year here."

She stifled a little bit of a laugh at his tangent- she had read both of those books- before forcing herself to grow a little more serious. "You know why you're in here, which is to talk about experiencing or seeing different types of abuse as a child. What...can you say on the matters in terms of yourself?"

"Ah, well my dad was..." He sighed for a moment before restarting. "He was a drug abuser and an alcoholic, so I was around a lot of that when I was a kid," he explained, loosening his scarf slightly as he spoke. "Took diamorphine, which is a high class opiate, and I used to find hypodermic needles around the house and I think he went to the ER a few times for thrombosis. And-...Sorry, diamorphine is heroin. I should have clarified that."

Steff offered a smile of encouragement. Somehow, it felt completely different than the other interview and she was glad of that.

"How did this drug and alcohol abuse affect your family?" she inquired, setting her pen and pad aside.

"He hit my mom a few times when I was ten or so," Percy recalled, frowning a little in recollection. "But they're divorced now. I lived with my mom before I came here, so it was good to get away from my dad."

"Are you interested in rekindling a relationship?"

"No, I really have no interest in anything of the sort. He was kind of a demon, really. I'm glad I'm not around that anymore."

"I see." She looked over at her camera, tilting back in her chair to check the battery. "And how has that experience of abuse affected how you view things today?"

"Well, I'm actually kind of a nerd," he said with a bit of a funny grin, "So I'm more interested in learning how the chemicals in drugs affect our nervous system. Knowing that people are so heavily influenced by pharmaceuticals, I'd like to maybe even come up with a cure for addiction and the drive that encourages people to abuse drugs and abuse others."

"So although it was a negative experience in your life, do you believe that it has helped shape your passions today?"

"Of course. See, when someone abuses someone or something, it's almost entirely scientific. Some people are hardwired to be more susceptible to becoming abusers than others. That doesn't make it right, by any means, but it offers some insight into what we, as scientists, have to look for," he stated, a hint of passion crossing over his expression. "Being angry at him won't do me any good. I can just hope to change it for other people so they don't have to experience the same thing."

"I see what you mean. Well, thank you for sharing your experiences and I hope you'll be able to find a breakthrough sometime," she said before clicking the camera off and pulling it from the tripod. She looked back at him. "Thanks, again. I appreciate you helping out."

Percy shook his head. "No need to thank me. Helping out; it's just what I do."

* * *

"That letter is _mine_ ," Aspen snapped, coming up from behind Finn to snatch the mail from his hand. "Don't even think about opening it."

"Geez, good God, who's in a bad mood?" Finn complained, staring at Aspen, who walked over to his bed to fall back on it. "You aren't...sick, though, are you?"

There was a long pause and Aspen tore open the letter carefully, his eyes skimming the words. Unfolding another paper, he traced his finger down the list of names and numbers before sighing loudly and closing his eyes.

"No," he answered finally. "I'm not sick."

Puzzled, Finn walked over to try and catch a glimpse of the letter, his curiosity burning. "Well? What is that then?"

"That...night when I got sick, I think someone spiked my drink because I only had one glass and that's below my tolerance," Aspen said, rolling onto his side to look at him although he slipped the letter under his pillow. "I know I slept with a few people or at least with someone but I can't remember any precautions and I had been feeling under the weather after-...I really thought I screwed up or something."

"So you got tested?"

"Yeah. I'm HIV negative. And everything else negative too."

Finn tilted his head to the side with a smile. "Even the pregnancy test?"

"Screw off, Finn," Aspen muttered, flinging a pillow in his general direction. Then, after a moment, he laughed slightly. "You're an idiot."

"I know." Sitting down on his own bed, Finn pulled at the loose strands of his comforter. "It's good you're not contaminated, though. That would have put a damper on everyone's life."

* * *

Dragging a few videos into the rendering screen, Steff put one of her headphones in to listen to how the videos were strung together. She had never been too tech savvy, especially with so many confusing programs to sift through, so she was glad when Rose offered to help. Rose had explained eagerly how she had pieced her high school senior class graduation video together, so if anyone was qualified to help piece together a documentary, Steff assumed it was her. Besides, she had more experience with working with videotaping and uploading and splicing and Steff was grateful for her help.

Sitting by the window, Rose gazed outside with a smile, her eyes tracing the streets. "You're so lucky to live on a second story dorm," she sighed, "Mine is right next to the parking complex."

"It's much harder when I have to move, though," Steff replied, biting her lip when she tried to transition two videos, unsure of what order to put them. "Rose-...How do you fit these together? It won't let me."

Walking over, Rose peered over her shoulder. "Oh," she giggled, pointing at a setting. "You have to turn this track editing capabilities on. Do you have an intro and outro? Those are important."

"Ah, I've been thinking of the videos you sent me," Steff responded, gesturing to the files on the open tab. "And I think I'll use the video of the center for the intro with a...quote or something, and then the outro will be muted outtakes with credits over them and...acoustic?"

"Oh, that sounds so artsy." Pulling at a blonde curl, Rose grinned, reaching to unplug Steff's headphones from the laptop. "There. Now we can both hear what you're working on."

"I...Are you sure you don't want to work on the other project? I don't want to distract you..."

"I can't make flowers grow any faster, silly. I like helping. Besides, I know it's a personal documentary for you! I'm really excited to see how it turns out."

"Yeah...I hope it turns out alright." Feeling slightly more anxious to finish, she cut the interviews, blurring on of them and fitting them in where they matched her points, careful to be precise lest she have to re-render the entire film. From behind her, Rose conducted her on what to do and how to go about making it flow. Steff tried to keep up, but found that putting videos in order and placing in soundtracks was far more obscure than flipping through the pages of a book.

"I know you like books and quotes and silly things like that," Rose started, drawing her mouth to the side as she pondered aloud, "But people forget those things quickly. Instead, you should start with something more...abstract. Something pretty sounding and...unique and...exotic."

Thinking for a moment, Steff reached over her desk to grab a note she had written with a saying she had rather liked, thinking it fitting for the intro of her project. Slowly, she typed it out, carefully selecting the font so it was not too gaudy, but pretty nonetheless.

"I think I'll use this," she said with a half smile. " _De dolorem ipsum, ad sumus ad meliora_."

 _From the pain, here we are to something better._


	22. Chapter 22

As you pointed this out, I accidentally over wrote this chapter and I don't have it anymore :( :( I might rewrite it sometime but...wahhhhhh


	23. Lights, Camera, Action 1

**I don't want to spoil this crack fic so have fun hahaha :)**

The alleyway was dimly lit, save for a flickering lamplight in the distance, and a hint of fog hissed around the bricks. Steff desperately wished for an opportunity to run but she had been cornered, staring as Cole kept his smug gaze on her.

He yanked at Steff's wrist, narrowing his eyes although a smirk played on his lips. "Are you really stupid enough to fall for something like that, Stephanie?" he hissed, his tone low and dangerous. "I don't need you anymore, love"

Shrinking back, Steff blinked up at him, the words seeming to become stuck on her tongue. "I-...I...Cole..." She had to swallow nervously to continue, feeling trapped as she pressed her back against the wall. " _Fine_." The words shook as she spat them out and she looked away to avoid his sneer of satisfaction. As he pulled away, he curled a finger in her hair before letting go, taking a step back with a laugh.

"Good." His brown eyes glinted as he slipped on a pair of black glasses. "Stay away from me. You're not welcome here."

"Cut!" Rose snapped her fingers with a giggle and the few people with the cameras looked up, stopping the footage. "That was really good. I think we can use this."

Sighing in relief, Cole pulled the glasses off, walking off set to toss them aside on a padded chair. "Oh, good. I was starting to get a headache from those lenses."

"Hey, I'm the one getting all picked on and my wrist is starting to hurt," Steff sighed, her fingers already working at undoing her braid. She glanced around at the waiting actors and other crew with pride before her gaze fell on Rose and she started over. "Hey, Rose, have we filmed the third chapter of the Hunt plot line? I really want to edit the lines there. I was thinking of adding in a new character from Aspen's past, just to shake things up."

"A new character?" Rose squeaked. "Last time we added a new character, people started to get iffy. I mean, ratings were still high but views declined a little, itty bit. Alaric _is_ dreamy, though."

"I know, I know." Brushing off her concern, Steff slipped off her cardigan to hang it on the back of a chair. "But I needed to develop my character after I entered in Cole again after he escaped. People were starting to get...bored. This is...really important to me, Rose. I can't let Aspen be a one-level character like everyone says he is. I want to film a lot of episodes in their separate plot lines before I air it in the right order."

Strolling over, Cole smiled and reached over to muss Steff's hair. "Oh? And what about me? Am I going to be a mean loon forever?"

"Stop it-" Steff complained and batted away his hand with a laugh. "If you keep bothering me, I'll make you the annoying villain forever."

"I read she's planning to erase you as her love interest," Rose piped up, raising a pencil as she flipped through some papers with a smile. "And maybe enter a new one?"

"A new one?" Cole raised his eyebrows. "Am I being replaced?"

"By me, I hope," Connor said jokingly as he walked in, wiping away a bit of fake blood from his cheek. His brother trailed behind him, picking off pieces of grass and blood from his clothes. "We just filmed his death scene...Ah, this really sucks, you guys. You know how long we've been acting for this show?"

Steff watched them enter a little forlornly. They had been some of the faves of the fans, but writing the screenplay took cuts and she couldn't help but kill one of them off.

"Hey, I can still be your stunt double," Cadyn pointed out, wiping dirt off his hands. "But really-...why did _I_ have to be the one cut?"

Rose darted over to the sink to wet a washcloth for Cadyn, always the first one the clean up makeup messes. "Well, if we're fair, Connor's character is closer with Steff than you are with hers," she said, hopping over to him to wipe the smudges from his face. "But hey! You still get actor benefits! And I'll style your clothes and help you pick out some new stuff anytime you want."

"Thanks, Rose," Cadyn grumbled as he took the cloth from Rose, although he wasn't comforted as much as he'd like. "But hey, any makeout scenes with him and I'll murder you all."

"Oh, no worries," Cole said lazily, pulling his tie off and reaching for his sweatshirt, "Your brother and I finished that scene months ago. Remember? Season two, episode five, 'The Balcony of Lu'-"

"Shut up, Cole," Cadyn said and hit his arm as he walked past. "I'm a little sad about the whole Cole-Steff thing being terminated. I thought that was the first major love story of the show?"

Sitting back in a plush armchair, Steff reached for the papers Rose had been looking over and pulled a pen from a side table. "Cole's character is mean, manipulative, and makes loads of dumb decisions. I don't see how anyone supported that love story."

"Well, we were betting on character development," Cole remarked, zipping up his sweatshirt, "For _me_."

Crossing out a few lines, Steff scribbled a few things on the paper. "I'll give you some character development, I promise. Rose suggested that we start to soften you after season six once Connor starts to confide in my character."

"We haven't had a serious love triangle yet." Tapping the side of her lip with her finger, Rose tilted her head to the side as she looked back and forth between Connor and Cole. "I was thinking that Connor, when he starts to confide in Steff, he realizes that he's madly in love with her but still has a bit of trouble with his whole brother situation and so he doesn't want to confess, but Steff only sees him as a friend but still feels bad for him so she gives in just a little, but then Cole starts to realize that she's slipping away and he really tries to reform and-"

"That was _not_ the idea," Steff said quickly, glancing over at Rose. "I mean...Connor's character just isn't like that. He's awkward, just lost his brother, and hasn't even ever dated a girl before. He's just not in the position to enter in a love story."

"No offense, but I think my character-" Cole gestured to himself, "-has been way too much of a douche lately. I mean, doesn't he have some sort of motive?"

"I have that written out. Trust me," Steff replied, looking up at him with a hint of a sympathetic smile. "At least the girls in the ratings still love you. Well...most."

Connor coughed. "Oh, yes, how could they not love a psycho that has relationship problems?"

"But really, I don't want to be like every brooding...blonde guy that graced the TV." Raising an eyebrow, Cole crossed his arms. "I mean, Draco, Spike, that guy from that godawful Beastly movie-"

"Fine, Cole, I'll develop your character," Steff conceded, rising to her feet to turn towards him, " _If_ you go out and buy us lunch."

"Consider it done. You better start writing," Cole responded, dipping down slightly to kiss her cheek affectionately. "I'll be an hour. I have to go back to my apartment to feed the cat."

Setting the papers aside, Steff smiled sweetly. "He's starting to grow on you, isn't he?"

"The next time you find some stray, don't dump him on me," Cole laughed as he started out and Rose cleared her throat delicately to catch their attention.

"Alrighty, everyone, I'm going to send the footage to sound editing! That was really good, you guys." Clasping her hands together, she gave an excited squeal. "Oh, goodness. We're really going to make a splash this year when we debut season six! Hot guys, pretty boys and girls, love stories and epic storylines...It'll be amazing."

"Thanks, Rose. Email me when the scenes are pieced together," Steff requested, brightening when Rose nodded. She pushed a bit of hair from her face, excited to finish the new episodes. "I'll be back. I'm going to go discuss some details with the others before they get too busy."

* * *

"You mean I...I have to get naked?"

"It _is_ a...romance scene," Steff sighed, reading over the screenplay as she walked with the young actor, trying to calm his nerves. "But, I mean, it's not like you have to take everything off. Just acting, remember?"

"I don't see why you had to write one in for my character." Aspen pulled his cloak on nervously, walking past the sound stages to get to the one he was going to shoot in. "Is it the one you've been meaning to give me...with Finn?"

A little embarrassed herself to be discussing such a scene, Steff nodded quickly, heat rising to her face. "Yes, it is. He's down to do it-"

"-He's down to do _anything_...Don't tell me that I'll have to film one with that Caspian character later. You _know_ I'm not particularly fond with him. And he doesn't like me."

"Well-" Steff drew her mouth to the side. In her scenes, she had always portrayed the shy one, and perhaps the naive one, and she fought to prove to others that she wasn't afraid to take risks in real life - as _herself_. "I want something that is more...provocative. We need a character like yours for diversity in types of people."

Pulling ahead, she grabbed the door to open it for him, ushering him inside and to his set. Although she hadn't been so close with some of the actors, the entirety of the cast and crew had become something like a family, wanting to include all of them in the episodes in any way she could. 'A family and friend business', she jokingly called it, but it worked and everyone seemed to hit it off with at least one other person that worked there.

It was funny, since she hadn't meant to include her character in so much of the screenplay, but Rose was more than encouraging and her personality was infectious through the others and her characters. Besides, the fans of the show seemed to like it.

Alaric was already standing by the set, which had been styled to look like the woods, a green screen placed near the back for their design manager, Aric, to work his magic with later. Caspian was silent as he stood in the midst of the fake grass, running over his lines quietly. When he noticed Aspen approach, he looked away and frowned.

"Hey, Cassy. Enjoy it," one of the actors, Finn, called across the set. His arms were slung over the shoulders of two side character girls, who whispered sweet things into his ears. Finn, Steff remembered, hadn't been too excited about playing a character with largely different tastes, but he was a good sport and she reckoned that he enjoyed playing an amusing character that had become popular with all.

"I'm really sorry," Aspen mumbled as he made his way on set, his black sclera contact startlingly dark against the delicate nature of his features. "I think you have to kiss me again."

"Whatever," Caspian sighed, wishing he could just ignore Aspen as he moved to stand beside him. "Kissing you is just part of the job. Maybe you should be professional and just suck it up."

"I would have been much better at your character," Finn announced over at no one in particular, raising his eyebrows. "I take a challenge and approach it with gusto."

"Guys," Steff said, having to repeat herself to get everyone's attention. "We need some quiet to start the next scene."

Watching as they started their lines, she gestured at Alaric for him to direct the cameras, wanting them to tighten in on a shot. Caspian reached for Aspen's hand gingerly in a scene she had written to encourage their development, not wanting to leave them as side characters as she had originally planned. They had been wildly requested by a large group of their viewers and she had to comply, adding in more and more scenes with them until they had become full characters.

"The lighting on the side is off," Alaric said under his breath once he was back by Steff's side. "Aric will have to edit it to make the shot clearer."

"I think it's good, though, for the most part." Steff watched with a smile as the words she had written unfolded, the lines running smoothly as Caspian and Aspen exchanged affectionate words. She supposed it was the only time they'd ever be civil with each other.

Then Aspen faltered slightly on a line when he leaned in for a kiss and Alaric was already calling for a cut, looking displeased that he was the one that had to oversee the shot and not Rose.

"Sorry-...sorry," Aspen sighed, the demure look in his expression now looking less coy and more awkward by the second. "I thought about it too much and I forgot my line."

"That's alright. We'll just try it again," Steff said encouragingly, waving her hand for them to get back in their places. "After this scene, I promise you guys can get a break."

"That's easy for you to say, Steff," Caspian muttered, fixing his hair. "You're out there on set making out with your boyfriend and I'm here having to kiss _him_. He can't even get through a single scene without flaking."

Finn rolled his eyes at his complaining. "Oh, ladies. Just get over yourselves. My role is much more difficult, I know, but I just make the most of it."

"Let's just get started on the scene again." Tapping her foot, Steff was quick to stop the argument she was sure would follow. "And trust me...It would be good to get comfortable with each other-" she looked down at the screenplay in her hand, "-because there are going to be a...lot of scenes with you guys to come."

* * *

Waving around a feather, Steff watched in amusement when Cole's cat leapt at it with kittenish excitement, batting at it with a striped paw. She left her book discarded on the table to amuse herself with the cat, reaching over to pet it with a smile. It had taken it a while for it to warm up to the both of them- and for Cole to warm up to it- but it was all the more accomplishing when the cat finally did start to show some affection.

After a minute, the cat yawned and padded away to curl up on the bottom of a bookshelf, tucking its nose into his plumy tail. After a moment, Steff picked up her book again to delve back into a story that she had read over a dozen times.

"Everyday, your character becomes more and more like the real you," Cole remarked as he arose from the kitchen with a mug of coffee and another one with tea. "And yet mine remains the...imprudent fiend."

"Well, I'm just making you more and more like the real you." Setting down her book again, Steff reached for a bookmark to put between the pages although she doubted she needed it to find her spot anyway. In fact, she was sure that she could nearly recite the words by heart.

Cole set the mugs down, sitting on the carpet across from her to peer at what book she was reading.

"Yes, but while you read your princess books, I'm here having to suffer with an insufferable character that believes he's so smart," Cole commented, his blonde hair pushed back from his eyes. "Stephanie, that lends me no confidence in your ability to make me into someone at least a little bit likeable."

"You will be likable, I promise." Steff reached for her mug of tea, blowing on it lightly. "And...and I do _not_ read princess books. They're _classics_."

"Ah, if you say so," Cole said with the sort of self-satisfied look that often made Steff want to hit him-...lightly, of course, but she still had the urge to push him over sometimes. "You are the boss, anyway. I relinquish my control."

Steff sipped at her tea. "Now you're just being snarky."

"I'm being honest."

"Don't bother me. I'm contemplating important plot ideas."

Skepticism laced Cole's expression. "Like what?"

"Well," Steff sighed loudly and smiled slightly. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

 **So I just had a funny idea thinking what if the characters were playing their characters in a show but -some- actually had different personalities in real life ahaha. Most of the plot ideas somewhat tie into the canonical plot line of the rp (but a bit out of order) hahahahaha It's so weird I'm sorry ahaha I might write more for this if I get more ideas. Sorry this was super duper rushed so it's pretty unfinished. I literally just wrote this in like two hours between watching TV**


	24. Chapter 24

**Sorry, here's a whole chapter of cole ahaha (the last chapter had a bit of him too). I feel like I've really started to dislike him and how he interacts with his environment so I just wanted to kind of try and expand on him more and figure him out because i really want to like him like I did way back when. Sometimes I look back at how I played him and I cringe so bad at his reactions because I really tried to mold him and he became so childish and I feel like I can't do him justice ahhhhhh I feel like he's one of the few characters that I have no control over :') So here are some blurbs of me trying to bring him back to life even though he deserves to die sometimes :') :') :') They're all over the place, sorry, and aren't in any specific order.**

Each morning, the few vials of potions that Cole took to keep himself on his feet left a burning taste in the back of his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure why he took them or if he did him any good, but nosebleeds were annoying and the dizziness was even less desirable, so he found that they were a necessary ingredient for concentration in his day.

Settling into a routine hadn't been entirely easy, but he was catching on to the way mundanes worked, acted, and lived. They looked at things differently; they looked at things possibly in the way he had when he was seventeen years old and pondering how to get rid of Mason, How to kill him, maybe, though he was sure that he could have done it. It baffled him for a moment why he hadn't and pushed away the thought quickly before it could plague him- thoughts about the past never did anyone good and his expression remained unchanged.

A textbook in his hand and a laptop bag at his side, he blended with the crowd on the streets in the midst of students and teachers and assorted pedestrians. His eyes flickered suspiciously at the foreign faces and he stuck his free, ungloved hand in his pocket, frowning when a sharp object stuck to the side of his hand. A tack. Of course, how could he have forgotten that he put it in there after a night of pinning up papers and trying to find connections between events and phenomenons. Obsessing over the news was little more than something to pass the time, he convinced himself, and it kept him up late at night.

He pulled out the tack from his pocket and let it fall haphazardly onto the street. A bead of blood welled from the scratch and he meandered his way into a local coffee shop to order a drink and grab a napkin from a dispenser to wipe it away. The line was fairly short, with a few students he had seen from the University, so he kept his gaze away from them.

Usually, he ordered a plain coffee. It was simple, cheap, and he didn't like half of the other drinks at the cafes where they filled them with mundane-tasting nonsense. Getting his cup from the counter, he adjusted his things, careful to make sure he didn't drop his textbook, and seated himself at a window table near the back to work on his projects.

His laptop brightened as it powered up, the beginning of an essay opening to an otherwise blank word document. _Is sadism situational?_ he posed in his notes, his fingers pausing at the keyboard. Tabs opened, the words _stanford_ and _milgram_ and _authourity_ and _prison_ flashing on his screen as articles rebooted themselves. Had he been merely that at the Institute? A radical guard in the Stanford prison experiment that chose to hurt anyone in proximity rather than just inmates? Or had he been a teacher in Milgram's experiment, convinced that he was not the one to blame for his actions?

Looking to his hand instead, he frowned. It was funny, really, how it hadn't healed yet and the red mark was still fresh against his skin. The thoughts jumbled up in his head and he closed out of the tabs to mindlessly write an introductory thesis for his essay, letting his coffee go ignored.

* * *

"Are you okay?"

The question came from a brown haired girl that sat near him in one of his classes pertaining to business, her tone hushed and worried. For a moment, he debated between hissing at her that he was fine and smiling charmingly to assure her that he was okay.

He waited a second too long to reply and a sudden headache started in the back of his skull, aching. Before, he hadn't noticed the drip of blood and the burning feeling that seemed to accompany each bout of nosebleeds.

"Fine," he replied curtly, standing up and wiping the blood away. A smear of bright blood stood out on the side of his hand and he gathered his things to slip away. The professor didn't seem to notice him quickly whisk out of the class and neither did the rest of the students, save for the one that asked him the question.

Becoming a werewolf, he thought he would have been in his best health. Funny enough, it simply seemed to only prolong the tedious life he had nearly grown accustomed to.

He fumbled for another vial, taking it quickly to avoid the dizziness that he was sure was yet to come. Sometimes, he wasn't sure why he worked so hard to keep himself upright. It would have been the best mystery, he often thought, for him to disappear quietly and never come back and leave the Clave forever wondering in the back of their minds what had happened to him. And if anyone ever looked, they would be met with frustration just like all that had looked for him before them.

He didn't deny the fact that he could not name any reasons of why he continued to live, but perhaps the main justification for him to not die was forever and invariably spite.

* * *

The Towns were a strange place to find solace in, yet Cole often found himself back in them. A dagger fit comfortably in his sleeve and he opted for an outfit a little less proper than his usual button-up and loose tie. Instead, he pulled on the hood of a jacket to cover his face. Even so, he didn't feel quite safe enough to take his glove off. He had grown used to seeing a face that wasn't quite so familiar in the mirror, although he found that he ducked mirrors more often than not.

He remembered a time when the dark ends of the Towns had nearly driven him mad with paranoia. The fix, he realized, was not to overdose on vials of potions and medicines to numb his mind but to join them. He had no map, but he was never lost.

The first time he entered the Towns as a werewolf was when he was found and he could brush away his past, his teenage desires, and focus. Now, walking through the people, he filed through them comfortably and they seemed to hardly notice him. Trouble scarcely came to him, save for a random fight with another werewolf or vampire on a full moon, but he still kept his daggers sharp.

Brothels were popular in the Towns and he walked slowly, his eyes catching on the different species and women that lingered around the fronts to attract interested customers.

A tall, lithe faerie girl surveyed possible customers, wearing only a bustier and a lacy skirt as she flirted around the crowd. Another girl, a werewolf, stayed close. She had on a short black dress that accentuated her curves and heels that lengthened her legs and Cole didn't give her another glance. Perhaps in his youth did women ever interest him when he realized they were things to win, but they had since lost their luster and he found no delight in staring at their bared skin and the way their hair fell on their shoulders and their glittering eyes as they glanced seductively over the crowd.

That life, the life where he had once been tempted, was a faraway truth he had once lived and even then had he been hard to interest with such materialistic values. Desire was a distraction and he had no time for anything that would get him off course.

Once, he thought he had become distracted with something that had mirrored desire. Friendship, Steff called it, but he had never particularly thought about kissing his friends. Then again, he didn't ever spend time thinking about kissing anyone nor did he ever have any friends. He thought about what seventeen year-old teenagers thought about with a certain amount of confusion as to why he would have such odd thoughts but, when he turned twenty, he denied his ability to ever ponder such ideas. Pushing them to the back of his mind, he forgot about them and they disappeared.

He held no want to stare at the brothel women and he walked past them as if he did not even notice they were there. In fact, the promise of darkness in the Towns was much more tempting and he followed it deeper down the winding alleys.

The scent of dewy streets were far from a home, but they were comfortable. And, past the brothels and the shops and the people, it gave him a bit of peace to know that he was, for once, completely invisible.


	25. Lights, Camera, Action 2

Staring at the script, Blake tilted his head to the side at his part. Steff knew he had always been hard to please when it came to his lines and they had both been wanting more screentime for his character, but somehow, the viewers still had him ranked ten and below on the online lists they made of their favourite characters. She didn't blame him, having always struggled with what direction to go in, but going 'good' was apparently the opposite of what Blake ever wanted.

"You're making me-...him soft," he observed, his tone sensible as he set down the screenplay. "Sorry, it's still weird that we're using our real names as our character names. But still...He's from this battle-hardened faction and now...he's buying things for Rose and taking her out for dates? Something just doesn't make sense."

Frowning slightly, Steff reached over for the script, her attention broken when Rose rushed over to hand Blake his contacts case. His eyes originally were a bright blue, which Steff would have been fine with, but Rose had insisted that he follow the original character design of faded green eyes. Blake seemed to sigh a little as he took the case, leaning back in his chair as he waited expectantly for Steff to respond.

Flipping through the script, Steff raised her eyes. "You might be from a 'battle-hardened faction', but you're still susceptible to feelings. I mean, we gave you that backstory that you had a girlfriend-"

"And she was super tough and hot and they were both only together to use one another," he mentioned. "I mean, Rose is nice and pretty but doesn't really fit what he likes."

"He wants something different. That's why he asked her out."

"Will we develop that more?" His voice was laden with skepticism, his expression worried.

Nodding, she handed him the screenplay back. "Of course, don't worry about it. I haven't planned out what I'm going to do with him in season seven, but I'll certainly figure it out."

When he seemed satisfied enough with her answer, she stood up to head out, wanting to go check up on how the others had been progressing before her break. Picking up her book bag with all her supplies - she never went anywhere without a copy of the script, a pen, and a book for downtime- she started out of the office and through the halls. Often, there were people working on editing in the side rooms and she dipped into them every now and again to see how they had progressed. Their crew was always busy, having to both act and produce, but she thought it was worth it after seeing the final product and hardly anyone complained about the long hours.

Stopping to peer into a room, she opened it quietly to not disturb Aric and Riley, who were sitting in front of two large screens as they edited in effects. They had bickered at first over artistic differences in season one and two, but after they somehow managed to find a compromise between their styles of editing, Steff applauded their work. She could never really grasp how they managed to create the realism of the scenes that, thankfully, helped them avoid becoming a b-list show with bad CGI.

"Change the saturation of the background inlay," Aric said, gesturing at Riley's screen. "The contrasts are a little off."

"I've been trying to fix that," Riley sighed, typing a few things into his keyboard. "The application is being finicky, though."

"Want me to get Lev to look at it?" Steff asked, finally speaking up. "I'm sure he's available. Percy took a little long in hair and makeup so their scene is going a little longer than expected today, but when they're finished, I can page Lev to come here."

"'Page'?" Aric repeated. "Don't let Lev hear you say that. He'll think you're living in the stone age."

"Well, then maybe he'll give me a new phone," Steff laughed, watching their screens. "Hey guys, this is really good work. When you're done, just email Rose or Alaric and they'll check it over. I'm sure it'll be great, though."

Confidently, Riley raised his eyebrows. "It'll be perfect. It always is."

"You messed up last season," Aric replied with a smile, always finding ways to poke at his work. "Remember when you were editing one of your own scenes and the cigarette smoke was _blue_?"

"That was the system's fault, not mine," Riley said to defend himself, never one to take any blame. "We'll keep working on it, Steff."

Nodding, Steff adjusted the bag on her shoulder. "Good, good. Well, I'm really excited to see what you guys come up with this season. I'll get Rose to send you more footage later today. Of course, if you need anything, feel free to text me. I'm always available."

* * *

"Geez, Mason, get a life away from bothering me," Piper complained, lazily munching on a snack as she watched Mason suspiciously. She leaned back in the chair in her room, gesturing at him with a half eaten mint slice. "Besides, you should stop barging into my room. I could be...naked. Or busy. Or both."

"Cut the crap, Piper. I gave you that assignment weeks ago and you still haven't made any progress." Refusing to acknowledge her comments, Mason crossed his arms across his chest and gave her a stern look. Most people would have obeyed him quickly, but Piper had always been difficult, especially with him. "I'll give you three more days to report to me. I need information on him. I gave you his case file so you have to bring back work or I'll revoke your privileges."

Rolling her eyes, Piper popped the treat into her mouth. "Oh? What privileges? Not getting a hitman set on me every Thursday? That's real great. I'm really determined to catch this killer now."

"Don't test me. You have a job." Mason looked less than impressed with her attitude. "Get on it."

"Oh, I will but at my own pace. Then you can celebrate when I crack the code and voila, I am your favourite." She couldn't help but poke a bit of fun when he didn't seem to play along with any of her jokes. Truly, when he wasn't ordering her around, he was boring her half to death with his talks of duties. "Don't fall in love. I _am_ the best."

"I'm expecting answers on Friday." Without another word as to not encourage her chattering, Mason walked swiftly out of sight to end the scene.

When the cameras cut, Piper shoved another mint slice in her mouth and celebrated with a muffled cheer around her food. Glancing over at Rose, she gave her a big thumbs up, swallowing her food.

"Sweet," she said, hopping off the set to brush off her shirt. "Now that we're done, that's my last scene in season six, right?"

"That's right!" Rose nodded happily. "But we'll keep you updated if anything goes wrong with the footage we already recorded. I doubt it will, though. You guys were fantastic."

Slipping off his leather jacket, Mason brushed off his shirt and reached for his glasses. Despite having no blood relation in real life to Alaric, Rose had to admit that they looked alike and if they had said that they were brothers, she wouldn't have batted an eye.

"I still have one more scene, right?" Mason asked, his English accent starting to shine through, which Rose would have found dreamy if he didn't play such an unfriendly character. He was rather good at concealing it during scenes, though Rose thought it added to his off-set charm. Either that, or she was wooed by a shirtless training scene he had filmed a few seasons back.

"Yep! Just one more, but it's just you in it and it's super short," Rose replied, smoothing her dress. "I haven't asked Steff what we're going to do with you guys in the later episodes, but I'm sure it's going to be fun."

Piper folded a piece of gum into her mouth. "Better not have any plans for a romance between me and Mason. He's like a brother, really. In real life, I mean."

"Because I still nag?" Mason looked over at her, unlacing his gear boots to slip on some sneakers. "Or because I order you around?"

"Ha, ha." Sarcastically, Piper shot him a glare. "I'd hate to have a love story with that doof. It is _not_ about to get all Cersei and Jaime in here."

Blinking, Rose tilted her head, her blonde curls falling slightly out of place. "Who?"

"That was a disturbing analogy, Piper. I really didn't need the visual." Once he had tied his shoes, Mason reached for his beanie to pull it over his hair. "Besides, of course we aren't going to get a love story. Steff already made it clear that she didn't want one for either of our characters, with anyone. Which, frankly, I'm relieved about. Anything other than that would have deviated from my character too much. And I think you're better forever alone."

Piper pointed at him, blowing a bubble with her gum. "Hey, I am a strong, independent woman that doesn't need any man."

"Whatever you say." Pushing up his glasses, Mason straightened up. "Aye, Piper. The boys and I are going to grab some food and go watch the game. Are you in?"

"As long as you don't say that you're feeling 'peckish' this time." Wrinkling her nose with a good-natured laugh, she worked on tying her hair up in a ponytail. "Like, dude, do you realize that you are way too-" she waved a hand at her stomach for reference, "-ripped to use such...delicate vocabulary? It's really throwing me off."

"Fine, then. I was _hungry_."

Unoffended that she wasn't invited - Rose had never been particularly close with either of them - she couldn't help but ask curiously, "Who consists of 'the boys'?"

"Alaric, Hunter, Sol. Maybe even Kel this time even though he doesn't usually like to come along," Mason answered, picking up his phone from a table to check his notifications. "That's it, I think."

Piper clicked her tongue, satisfied with the people that he named. "Cool. You can pick me up at six."

* * *

Dozing off, Steff rested her head on her arms, her laptop dimming as the minutes ticked on without any activity. She had been stuck in writing, unsure of what she wanted. Instead, she had gotten caught up in reading the comments online about the show. Somehow, even though there were pages and pages of praise, the nasty ones seemed to stick the most. Eventually, she couldn't help closing her eyes, exhausted by the late nights she had spent in her efforts to make the upcoming season perfect.

Closing her laptop quietly, Cole picked it up to slip back into her bag before reaching for the cord to wrap it up. He didn't mind her coming over often to use his place as a workspace or steal his novels - he hardly ever had any company anyway. Watching her for a moment, he debated whether to wake her or not as he put her things together, careful to remember one of the books she had left on the kitchen counter.

When he glanced back, though, she had stirred and pushed her hair back from her face. "Did you take my laptop?"

"It was going to burn a hole in my table," he replied, setting her bag on a chair. Usually, his hair was neatly styled back, but she could tell he had washed it and it was mussed.

She pressed a hand against her forehead, looking apologetic. "Sorry-...Ah, I should head home. I just had a lot of work."

"It's no problem. You ought to refrain from overworking yourself." He seemed to read her mind and he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. "You have an interview tomorrow to talk about the new season."

"I know..." Standing up, she stifled a yawn and pulled her bag closer to herself. "I'm not sure what to say about it yet as to not give it away, but I'm sure I can figure it out."

He nodded, leaning against the wall next to the table. Looking to the side when the cat jumped up, Cole reached to pet it absentmindedly.

"It was bad to bring you the cat," Steff decided aloud, a bit of humour in her expression. "Sometimes I think you're both scheming to do something crazy."

"Not scheming, only planning," he remarked dryly, lowering his hand when the cat padded away to leap back to the ground. "How far have you gotten when it comes to season seven?"

"I have three episodes done." Checking her bag to make sure everything was present, she zipped it closed before slinging it over her shoulder. "I'm just going to proof them and then start on the next ones. I've been reading some blogs on what people like and dislike about the show...Maybe I'll include some of the things they say...I'm not sure...I don't want to be too influenced by what they say but-"

"Whatever way you make it will be fine." Grabbing his keys, he slipped them into his jacket pocket. "I've never stressed about what others think. Surely, Stephanie, you won't let them get in the way of what you want to write."

"I-...You're right." Smiling slightly, she shook her head. "I promise, I'll give you some fun character scenes. I have a few ideas."

"You had better."

"I will, I will. Really." Her eyes flickered to the door. "I should really get going. Sorry...I didn't realize how late it was."

"No worries. I wasn't about to sleep anytime soon," he said and brushed past her as he headed to the door. "Here, I can drive you home."


	26. Chapter 26

**Some more canon scenes- last two are extremely recent.**

* * *

Sometimes, Blake wondered why Lily had picked him out of everyone, knowing that there were Shadowhunters far more qualified to take his place.

They often sat in alleyways and talked, their words a little too harsh to be considered affectionate, but he supposed it was just how they spoke. Their first meeting hadn't gone well, with Blake giving her a light scar on her cheek and Lily using a knife to cut his palm as he tried to block her. Then she had paused, her eyes - she had striking, fascinating eyes - narrowing at him before she started to interrogate. He had no choice but to answer with the truth and she...she was new and gorgeous and Blake had never seen a girl quite like her before in his life.

She had runes that laced her arms and lovely features that were so unfae-like, he could not help but stare in wonder. Unlike all the faeries he knew, she had warm brown eyes with long lashes and full, rouged lips that accentuated her wicked smile. Her hair was straight and black and it waterfalled down her back and had a sheen in the moonlight.

People didn't kiss in the Unseelie, not just for fun, and he struggled to keep up with the standards that he found strange and unfamiliar. Often, she tightened a gloved hand around his wrist, watching him with eyes of a hunter and it took all of his self control not to lash out and fight back when it was all he knew and all the Unseelie had taught him. Instead, he stayed still, frozen almost, and stared as she tilted her head towards him and smiled in the way that confused him. She was foreign and he was more than interested.

"Blake," she said sharply to get his attention. He hadn't been able to tell her his faerie name, so she gave him a mundane one and he took a quick liking to it.

He raised his eyes. "Yes?"

"What is the Unseelie Court like?" Lily reached for him and tugged at his arms to encourage him to put them around her. She was tall, almost as tall as he was and he didn't have to look down at her as he talked. And, for a moment, he debated over answering but she had made it clear before that her questions were less like questions and more like demands and she wouldn't rest until he answered.

"Harsh, but I'm invisible there," he answered, his expression a mask as he stared at her. "I never get into trouble like a good portion of the people there. The King's children take pleasure in seeing the lower fae suffer."

Her eyes grew into slits. "But you're pure. How are you invisible?"

Shrugging carefully, he pulled one of his arms from around her to touch her hair lightly, watching it. "I know. My family is pure but we never took jobs in high up positions to reduce the risk of being noticed. It's not like we weren't respectable people."

She tilted his head up, putting one of her fingers under his chin and her nail dug into his skin. "Respectable? I see nothing respectable about a faerie that slinks off to a mundane world."

Quickly, he grabbed her wrist to pull her hand away. "I'll show you respectable. _Don't_ push me."

Laughing, she tugged her hand out of his grasp, closing her hand around the collar of his shirt instead. "C'mon, Blake. Don't bitch out on me. We all know you love a good fight."

Instinctively, his hand went to a dagger at his side, his expression darkening in anticipation. "You know I'll probably win."

"Oh, I doubt it."

Although he guessed that she was younger than he was, she was far fiercer in the way that made him always stand on edge. He was used to the persuasion of faeries and their magic when they spoke in low, alluring tones but somehow, he could not help but be more inclined to abide by her requests and questions. She growled at him and his posture stiffened before he allowed himself to respond with a playful hiss. People in the Unseelie never played the way she did and he often forgot that she was a Shadowhunter.

"If I win," she said, taking a few steps back with a smirk pulling at her mouth, "You tell me some secrets. If I lose, I'll buy you that dagger you've been wanting for the past month. Deal?"

A hint of excitement flared up in his eyes at the challenge and the hilt of a knife settled into his hand. " _Deal_."

* * *

"Now, just work with me," Aspen muttered, frustrated when the horse trotted away from him. "I don't care if you don't like me. I don't even like _you_ that much. But work with me, _please._ "

Following the horse with one of the faerie apples in his hand, he walked behind it silently, trying to not scare it off. He assumed it was just his mood that was keeping the horse at bay and he took a slow breath to calm his nerves. The horse, paused to graze leisurely and Aspen approached it carefully, running a hand across its coat. It much more elegant than the horses in the mundane world and it seemed smarter - too smart to listen to him easily and he had been following it for longer than he'd like.

Neighing, the horse stamped at the ground, shifting. Stepping back, Aspen pushed away the urge to snap at it angrily, annoyed that it didn't seem to do what he wanted. Impatiently, he set his jaw and reached for a vial from his pocket of a thick, red liquid. Unscrewing the cap, he poured it over the side of the apple, careful to not let it run over his fingers.

"C'mere," he said and forced his voice to grow gentle till it was a coo. He stuck out the apple, catching the horse's attention. "That's it. Look what I have for you. That's good. It's for you."

Slowly, the horse seemed to be less frightened by his tone, taking the apple swiftly from his hand to eat.

It was funny, since Aspen had remembered using tricks to get people, not horses, to join the Hunt. From offering them food and drink of the fae, he had once used sleazy ways to ensure that the people couldn't leave. Now, though, they weren't so desperate for new recruits so he could spend his time doing other things.

Gradually, the horse's coat began to grow sleeker and darker until it was a smudge against the shadows of the forest. It whinnied and turned its head to Aspen, its blazing eyes on his.

"That's it," Aspen murmured, coaxing the horse towards him.

Its eyes seemed to glow, burning bright from the red magic of the Hunt. The burning of Gwyn's blood, Aspen had always referred to it and it was nearly true. Gwyn seemed to live inside all of them in the Hunt. Extending a hand, Aspen ran his hand down the horse's mane, encouraging it to follow him as he started back to the forest.

"Come on, Eculeus," he said, finding it a fitting name. "Let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

"My...My name-"

"We don't have all day to run the tests. Please state your name and Institute affiliation for the board."

"I'm Connor...Kodeki-...Sorry, it's Kode, hyphen, Ký."

An important looking woman in robes wrote down a few notes on a paper, the quill scratching at the surface and Connor bit his tongue to keep himself from wincing. The air behind the glass was heavy like fog and he inhaled deeply only to find that his lungs strained for more oxygen. A table of weapons lay a few meters to his side, but the thought of picking one up made him feel sick. Bile burned the back of his throat and he kept his eyes averted to the tiled ground. It was like being under scrutiny, on trial, like he was a criminal and they stared with disapproving glances. He hadn't passed the Academy with high honors and the hum of their unwelcome stares was more than obvious.

The head woman whispered something to the side at a man, two lines of lipstick hissing menacing words that made Connor burn with unease. Slowly, he straightened when he felt eyes on him again, feeling their gazes singe into his skin.

"And you've already taken three other tests, one two days ago, and two yesterday," the woman continued, her quill rested in an inkwell. "Will you restate them for the board?"

"Y-yes, of course," he replied shakily, forcing himself to calm before nodding. "One was a language proficiency test where I tested my fluency in Russian, Swedish, Vietnamese, Spanish, Enochian, Chthonian, and simple words of Latin, Sino-Tibetan, and Greek. I scored high marks on all of them. The second test was runes - a simple memory test, really - and the third was accuracy without runes, consisting of throwing knives and archery. I excelled in archery and was proficient with the knives-"

"Thank you, that's enough." The woman held up a hand to silence him and his voice faded into the steady ring of the room. "Today, we want to see you fight. Please, direct yourself to the table to your left and pick your weapon of choice."

He didn't have to think as he made his way over to a sword, the hilt cold and uncomfortable in his hand. His fingers closed around it carefully, as if it were something precious, and he swallowed. The lacing of black runes curled comfortably around his wrist but the harsh lines of a red mourning rune was clear against right palm. It was a scar he forced himself to look at at night, knowing it would never fade and it did little to ease what an _iratze_ could not fix. Tearing his eyes away from the blade, he glanced back at the people that were sheltered behind the large pane of glass, awaiting for another instruction.

"This test is not meant to be easy. You may not come out unscathed, but your skills will be deeply considered when it comes to judging your fit for the Scholomance," the woman started, gesturing over at a few gold wooden boxes at the edge of the room. "You may choose to stop at any time, but stopping will guarantee a decline from the school."

Connor stiffened at the boxes. He had read about the Pyxis boxes in the Academy and how they had been used for training at one point, but the death of a student following the use of one lessened their popularity for education. His hesitation must have been obvious because the board shifted in their seat and their impatience seemed tangible.

"Whenever you're ready, Shadowhunter."

Her voice grated across the room and, after a second of regret, he stepped forward to unlock the first box.


	27. What Might Have Been

**A super short chapter on ideas of what might have been if certain events wouldn't have happened.**

 **Kellan: If he had survived the Shadowhunter battle**

"It isn't right," Kellan interjected, standing up quickly and earning a murmur of surprise from his brother. "We must call a meeting to deal with this. Their concerns are not erroneous."

The Consul turned a calculating eye to Kellan's father. "Will you silence your son? I can't have his...leniency for the faerie race cloud his judgement for what is right."

"He won't silence me when he knows I'm correct." Continuing, Kellan removed a letter from his coat, sliding it across the desk to the Consul. A bit of red hair uncoiled over his forehead and he pushed it back over his ear, a clear reminder to all of his heritage. "There's a transcription here of our meeting with the Queen. She has requested that we stop our interference with changelings."

Shifting, his brother glanced to the side, muttering something over at him quietly. He had always been for the rights of the fae, surely, but his ferocity for advocation had always paled in comparison. Instead, he had lead a rather normal life, vying for a position in the Clave and having a Shadowhunter wedding with a girl he had met from Manchester. Their father had never been able to find a suitable wife for Kellan, but then again, Kellan didn't like the idea of being sold off to marriage for the sake of taking advantage of his youth.

"I know, I know," he whispered patiently at his brother, hardly able to hear his cautious comments. "But I must bring it up if they are ever available to listen."

"Our interference, Kellan," the Consul said sharply, "Is not to hinder their ability to acquire changelings but to protect ourselves. Shadowhunting first, or have you forgotten?"

Trying to respond with a kind comment, he could not help but sigh inwardly at their stubbornness. "This doesn't concern us. Whatever quarrel they have with the Unseelie is none of our business. The changelings will not threaten our relationship with the Unseelie, no matter how fragile it is. Neutrality is still an option."

"You understand that you have to take this up with the entire Clave," the Consul said, a hint of resignation interweaving with their tone of annoyance. "This ridiculous notion that we can stay neutral will only add onto their distrust of your blood. You know I have attempted to turn a blind eye to your father's...misconduct but-"

"Don't insult my family in this way," his brother said, unable to ignore the turn of the discussion. "Our father is respectable and so is my brother."

Kellan exchanged a look with both his father and brother before turning back to the Consul. "All I'm asking is for you to respect their boundaries as they respect ours. Surely this will not be difficult for us. Basic, human respect."

"You forget, Kellan-" the Consul looked displeased, "-that the fae and us Shadowhunters are not necessarily human."

"Maybe." Straightening, Kellan ignored the red curl that fell out of place. "But that doesn't mean that we can't have a bit of humanity."

 **Aspen: If he had never joined the Hunt**

Nyx often sat in the lobby with a glass of some faerie alcohol in his hand, his suit neatly ironed as he eyed the incoming customers. Often, he gazed at his establishment with a look of cunning pride, running his tongue across the points of his teeth. His eyes glinted smartly as he sipped at his alcohol and followed the incoming person like a cat.

"Seamstress or tailor?" he asked lazily, eyeing the person in front of him. "I have a faerie girl that's always eager to please. She's all sorts of fun and nice and a real submissive if you like things like that. Or there's my star pet and he's a real trip. Will do anything you please and he's real pretty." Listening, he nodded carefully, a smirk spreading across his face. "Ah, I see. Yes, I'll send for him. Make sure to tip him nicely - he's in demand quite a bit and I don't want him out of order anytime soon. But, if you'll follow Poppy, I'll ring for him."

Tightening the sash of his satin dressing gown, Aspen leaned up against a dresser in front of a mirror, inspecting himself. His hair was tousled and he smoothed it down, reaching for a compact of powder to hide a light bruise on his cheek. He supposed he had gotten it from hitting it against a table, but he often forgot and was quite unable to keep track.

Nyx never let him go out much but he didn't mind for he preferred the dark anyway. He was left, however, with a porcelain complexion and his eyes were emeralds that stared back at himself. Swallowing, he reached for a pad of rouge and pressed his thumb against it. Swiping it against the curve of his cheekbones, he looked slightly more content at the flush against his skin. To finish, he smudged the rest of the creme against his bottom lip. He gazed for a few more seconds before looking away from the mirror quickly, a little weary.

He didn't rest long before a knock at his door drew him from his thoughts. Walking to the door, he opened it carefully.

"You have someone heading up," Lye said, holding a few fabric items in his hand. "Once you're done, Nyx says to send for me and I'll draw a bath and change the sheets."

"Very well," Aspen sighed, waving him off and leaving the door cracked. He went to stand by the bed before pacing a few times, unable to keep still. He was startled slightly when the door creaked back open only a few moments later and he turned to greet the person standing there.

He had mastered how to stand, how to look, the edge of his purple dressing gown slipping from his shoulder as he bit his lip with a demure smile. To allow his wings room, he often let the back of his dressing gown droop down slightly, perfecting his silhouette of a coy and extraordinary figure.

"It's a lovely night, isn't it?" he asked, his fingers playing with the sash that kept him clothed. "I always liked my room up here. You can see the Towns."

The person closed the door behind them in response and Aspen took a shuddering breath.

"Alright, then." He flicked a hand towards a drawer. "There's things in there if you'd like. Whatever you'd like. And I'll be anything you'd like."

Slowly, he sat back on the bed, working to loosen the sash. Allowing the person to approach him, he was very still when they pulled at his sash to tie over his eyes, blinding him. The room was quiet, too quiet, and Aspen tightened his fingers in the sheets, his chest rising and falling in anxious anticipation. Breath skated against his cheek before teeth scraped against his throat and Aspen groaned softly, hoping it didn't sound too forced. He lifted his hands to run his fingers through their hair and lift their head to kiss them, shrugging off his dressing gown so it curled on the sheets and around his waist.

It wasn't long before their hands roamed to tug his dressing gown off to discard beside them, their nails scratching across old grazes and bruises on the side of his waist and the curve of his hip. Grasping at them blindly, Aspen murmured encouraging things into their ear, his eyelashes fluttering against the sash.

"That's it," he whispered sweetly, curving up against them. "Just tell me what to do and I promise I'll be good."

 **Cole: If his parents had never died**

Sharpening _Marchocias_ , Cole turned it over and held it to the light to watch it gleam before reaching for a towel to wipe off the blade. He had only used it a few times for actual combat but otherwise kept it in pristine condition, careful to not let anything happen to the only heirloom of his family. In fact, he had never preferred fighting with shortswords and instead took a liking to daggers, knives, and seraph blades unless the demon called for otherwise.

Looking back when the door to the training room opened, his brown eyes narrowed goodnaturedly. "Stephanie. What are you doing here?"

"I've finished packing a bag," she answered, her hair tied up in a bookish bun, a few blonde strands framing her face. "I thought you were going to be doing the same, but you're here instead."

"Ah, that _was_ the plan," he remarked, sliding _Marchocias_ back into its sheath. "But I saw Mason and he put me into a perpetual mood of annoyance and I lost all will to pack. I regained a pleasant taste for homicide, though. And then Rose seemed determined to talk my ear off about things I don't care about. I wanted to tell her to leave but I'm afraid she didn't even give me the chance. That took up quite a lot of my time."

Disapprovingly, Steff walked inside of the training room and rested a hand against one of the tables. "Don't be so mean to Rose. She wouldn't talk so much if you didn't make her so nervous. And you ought to refrain from joking about those things with Mason. You could get in trouble again."

"Nonsense. I'm a refined being."

"The only reason why the Clave isn't currently investigating your threats against him is because your parents were kind enough to fight for you. You should really give them a thank you," Steff responded, fighting the urge to frown as she watched him. "I know more than some that you haven't always been nice-"

"Are you going to lecture me like a parent?"

"Cole-...You know I only mean well," she said slowly, carefully, trying to not say anything she'd regret later. "I'm only...worried for the sake of your reputation with the Clave. I don't want you in any trouble and I don't want you to make any trouble with people I consider my friends. Rose, I mean. Not particularly Mason, but even then."

He exhaled stubbornly, having always harboured a bit of bitterness. A bad seed, some called him, but he had never done enough to warrant any serious investigation. After Steff convinced him to stop chasing after his vendetta against Mason, he had been more than uncooperative. It went without saying, though, that he was a novel, Latin, and travel enthusiast and Steff found it curious to hear about his hobbies. Her parents had never allowed her to do what she liked as a child, but without her brother and the curse, she didn't see any reason to not explore and read what she liked. Independence was foreign, but she welcomed it wholeheartedly.

"Are your parents still in Zürich?" she asked when he didn't reply to her worries. "I know you said they moved there a few years ago."

"Yes, so we'll be going there first," Cole answered as he pulled a few weapons off the shelf to take with him. "I don't think my mother will like you. She dislikes Londoners. And she'll try to force formal training upon you. I'm sure she'll go out of her way to hire ones from the Academy to make a 'proper Shadowhunter of you'. She's entirely ambitious and more blunt than I am, so I hope you're prepared."

"Oh?" Her expression shifted into one of anxiousness. "Well...I'll try not to take what she says to heart...And really, we should have gone an hour ago. I don't want to nag but we did promise to be there by six."

"We can go by Portal," he said, starting past her to step into the hall. "Once I have my things, meet me by the doors."

"Alright, but you better not be too long," she reminded him before starting down the hall as well to collect her bag, not wanting to be caught as a hypocrite.

* * *

 **Caleb: If he hadn't been born with the Sight**

Typing in a few things to the chat, Caleb rushed to move his character further downstream to warp back to the River Styx, hoping to regain his health. Following a fatal dungeon raid that hadn't gone well, the rest of his party members had rushed to flee back to their base. However, he was reluctant to abandon the task. After all, the rare set of Khorium armour was hidden in the last level along with citrine enchantments (+20% dexterity and +80% speed). Simply, he couldn't let an opportunity pass him by.

Reaching to the side, he fumbled for his headset, scrambling to hook it into the computer and pull it over his ears. The volume crackled as he tried to adjust it and, slowly, his friend sounded on the other side, their voice muffled with background noise.

"Alright, alright," Caleb spurted out, trying to keep up with everything they had said. "I'm going to try to use debuff against him. He's a high level dragon. I don't know if I'll be able to get through it."

His character ran across the screen, their outfit an...interesting array of armour and charms. It didn't matter much to Caleb what it looked like, though, as long as the stats were high. He had grown attached to a helmet he had won in a troll's lair once, though, and although he owned another helmet in his inventory that had higher defense, he refused to swap it out.

"I'm going to use Heroic Strike too-...Yeah, I know it's a level one move but who cares? I'm using everything on my attack table and-..." An alert sounded on his computer and he made a sound of frustration, adjusting his headset. "Okay, okay...Mmhmm, wait let me pause real quick. I got an email."

Minimizing his tab, Caleb pulled up his web browser, opening the new notification that had interrupted his game. Looking at it, he couldn't help but feel slightly disheartened. It was good news, of course, but it reminded him again of his unlucky situation.

 _Congratulations_ , it read. _You've been accepted into the DigiPen Institute of Technology. Please respond by-_

Glumly, Caleb exited out of his email. It was his dream school, but he had already earned a hefty scholarship from a local public school and his mom had already made him agree to go. Sometimes, he wished he had fought his way to DigiPen to convince her that it would pay off in the end, but with four other siblings, he knew she wouldn't listen. Instead, he opened up his game again, coughing slightly to make sure his friend knew that he was still online.

"Yeah, it was nothing," he said, trying to ignore the sudden noise of his siblings outside his door. "Just some spam email. Now come on, are we going to do this raid again or not?"


	28. Graveyard Fics

**So, I feel like this is somewhat giving up but there are some chapters that I have semi-written but then lost the motivation to complete. I doubt I'll finish all of them, but I decided that I'd post this fragment here since I am certain that I'll never finish it. Wahh. I hate that I don't want to complete this :(**

 **The 20's (not a connected story to the WW1 storyline)**

* * *

The streets smelled like cheap, wet leather and the scent of cigarettes clung to people's coats. A few automobiles sped past, dew clinging to their tires as they skidded across the street. The shadows had cast a gloom over the sky but the people hadn't allowed that to dim their spirits, flocking to the brightly lit dinner venues to slip into hidden stores and bars. It smelled of excitement but, to Leah, it smelled like home.

She kept her hair carefully combed back under a cloche hat, the rest of her corkscrew curls pluming out from under it, brushing the collar of her coat and under her ears. A clutch was perched in her hand as she walked, holding her chin up as she ignored the glances from the folk as they passed by. A gust a wind rustled her knife-pleated dress, which fluttered around her knees and she tightened her coat around her. Reaching into her clutch, she pulled out a card as she turned down a busy alley, pushing though some people and a few socialists that had been bickering over god-knows-what. Leah had always tried to stay out of the crazy white people's politics. For all she was concerned, the only thing they did was go to war and try to amend some broken constitution.

A man in a slick suit eyed her as she neared him, smoking a cigarette. She flashed him her card and, after a quick glance-over, was let into the venue.

Speakeasies never played anything but jazz, the sound of brass carrying over people's conversations as a piano riff dazzled in between the notes. She tilted her chin down, pursing her lips. People, mostly young women and men, laughed over drinks, smelling of watered down alcohol and the usual works they served. As far as she was concerned, half of the people seemed ossified. Leah was hardly surprised.

"Oh, god, good, you're here," some young man said, reaching over to touch her shoulder to urge her towards the direction of a door. "Look, the next act is almost done. We can just get the stage cleaned and-"

Leah stared at the man in confusion for a moment before her gaze washed over with understanding and clear annoyance.

"I'm no singer, if that's what you're insinuating," she remarked, making sure to not push his hand away. There was no saying what someone like him would do and sometimes folk were awfully touchy about that kind of thing. "I'm in here for the drinks."

He paused, tilting his head forward with a squint. Some of his red curls fell over his forehead. "What-?"

"I said, I'm no singer. Thanks, but you've mistaken me for the wrong person," she responded, tightening her hand on her clutch and drawing her mouth to the side. She looked him over once. "I'm not here to be your entertainment."

"Oh..." Uncomfortably, he shifted, as if he couldn't bring himself to apologize to someone like her in public. "Who let you in?"

"The man at the door. Why? There a problem with that?"

There was a pause in the music as the pianist flipped his music sheet to the next song, getting ready to play again. The man, whom Leah assumed was the manager, glanced at the door before back at her, unsure of what to do.

"Look, I feel bad about it, but we can't-...don't serve your-"

"Can't or wont'?" Leah raised her eyebrows, looking at him expectantly. "I don't see anyone telling that Asian boy over there-" she gestured with her head towards a person at the bar, "-to leave. I have a card to be here. Or do I have to go since I won't sing and perform for you?"

"No-...It's just..." He lowered his voice, leaning in slightly so she could hear him over the crowd of people moving around her. "I have no problem with you being here. It's just the people here that might take offense to it. Look, it's not my jurisdiction to tell them how to feel. But just...try to not cause any trouble."

"Me? Cause trouble?" Leah let out a laugh, sounding incredulous. "I doubt _I'm_ the one that would cause trouble. God, y'all think _I'm_ the one that asks for this."

It was like that every time, people assuming she was some sort of singer when the only song she had ever sung was some hymn to Jesus in church when she was ten. God didn't help her then, though, so she doubted He would help her now. Slipping past him, she seated herself at a table, observing the crowds. No one would ever assume she was not a singer, much less educated, but she didn't care much anymore. No one could really change people's ignorance.

Cheap whisky splashed onto the floor as some girl giggled past, little tassels from shift dress shimmering around her thighs as she walked. Leah looked away, appalled at her immodesty. She had never preached for prudence, but she certainly had never tried to be so indiscreet. Girls, she supposed though, were like that nowadays. It was just the time to have the short skirts and short hair, living life like it was a short fuse ready to fizzle out.

* * *

Savannah laughed when a bit of her drink ran down the side of her glass, over one of her fingers, and she grabbed a napkin to wipe it off. In turn, she had to pull away from the person she had been dancing with but he was a little bit boring for her and smelled too much like cheap cologne. Raising the glass to her lips, she smiled into her drink when she sipped appreciatively, scoping out the people there.

Reaching up, she touched her hair, cupping the curls to push them up. She hadn't the heart to cut her hair off for the latest trends, but it was easy to pin her hair up into a curly bob, framing her face and catching everyone's attention as she walked passed. She didn't blame them; she was almost impossible to ignore.

Her mood was considerably lowered when she realized her glass was almost empty, slipping through the people to go back to the bar. A flirty smile rested on her lips and she leaned over the bar, to flag the bartender, who was some nervous looking young man that glanced over her before hurrying to make her drink. On and off, her eyes flickered to the man on the stage that was playing the piano, a woman next to him singing vocals. Now, to her, the Harlem people were just _precious_ , always playing their songs. Her mom always told her to not stay too long in establishments where they let in those type of people to entertain, but by god, she just couldn't get away from the nightlife.

"What a nice night," someone spoke next to her, leaning in a little so he didn't have to speak so loud. "With a bunch of nice people, wouldn't you say?"

Savannah couldn't help a tug of a smile at her lips, glancing over at who had spoken. For some odd reason, she couldn't place his age as if he could have been sixteen or twenty six, with bright, intelligent green eyes and a mirror of a smirk on his mouth as well. He wore a smart, black and green striped bow-tie and a slim cut suit, a little overdressed, but sharp either way. He met her eyes levelly, only a little bit taller than her. Her mother called her height unladylike, but Savannah, who couldn't be concerned in the slightest about 'ladylike-ness', called her height royal.

"It _is_ a nice night," she said and laughed, almost spilling her drink again. "Sorry, I admit I'm a bit spifflicated."

"That's okay. Me too." He smiled along with her, like he had practiced in the mirror, and looked away at the bar. It was quite a nice lie, being drunk, but he hadn't touched a drink. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had bought himself one. "What's a lady like you doing in a place like this?"

"I'm hardly a lady-"

"Then you're even better." Slowly, he held out his hand, his eyes glittering. "Miss-..?"

She extended a hand into his to shake it. "Please, call me Savannah."

"Savannah. What a lovely name," he responded, raising her hand to press his lips to her fingers lightly. "I'm Aspen."

"And I have a feeling you're hardly the gentleman that you try to make others perceive you as," she observed, amused as she pulled her hand back after a moment. "Is that right? I have no time to be ladylike and proper in a time like this."

"Then I like you already." Aspen seemed to relax, loosing his poise and instead looked her over, whether it was to appreciate her or analyze her. His movements were calculated and planned, as if he were doing a routine. "Nice music, isn't it?"

"My mother would condemn it," she stated, setting her drink down to pull out a cigarette. "What a wowser, right? You can imagine why I'm-"

She was interrupted when another girl flitted over to her to grab her arm with a laugh. Her dress strap had fallen off her shoulder and a large shawl was thrown around her arms. From the way Savannah addressed her, Aspen found that her name was Piper.

"God, Savannah," Piper said, moving to drag her away, a cigarette in her fingers. She moved to set it to her lip with a smile, hissing in through her teeth. "What're you doing with a _fairy_ like him? I've got someone to introduce you to. He's big in the stocks, you know. People prophesize that he's gonna be rich."

"Oh?" Savannah raised her eyebrows in interest. "And what's with all the blind dates recently? I'm not here to find a _husband_ , Piper."

"But he's such a gentleman, so I've heard. And not full of all that damned bull like all the other guys." Her eyes were drawn over to the direction of the person she was speaking of. "He's just over there observing. And I'm sure a pretty girl like you could get a chunk of his will, even if he's pretty young. And his name's Alari-"

"Piper." With a bit of a roll of her eyes, Savannah pushed her hand off her arm so she could wipe her mouth carefully to not smudge her lipstick. "That's my ex-fiance's cousin. I can't go for that. Besides, I'm sure I can get any guy I want. I'm allowed to be selective."

"Alright then..." Piper drew back skeptically, looking like she might go and pester others. "Don't regret it, then."

* * *

Abel's brother would have remarked that he was too young to wander around the blind tigers and the like, but Abel decided that it wasn't too dangerous as long as he didn't talk to any police and he didn't upset any of the more unsociable fellows that hung around the bar. It wasn't as if he were going to some creep joint, although his brother certainly acted like it, refusing to come along. Their parents would have scorned him as well, but he just wanted to see what the nightlife was all about and the jazz, by god, the jazz.

His mother nearly preached the Klan's views against him, although Abel never understood why. Her husband, their father was an Asian immigrant, was he not? She never ceased to confuse him with her beliefs.

He stood at the bar, angled towards the stage with a non-alcoholic drink in his hand. The idea of alcohol was off-putting but the idea of freedom was easy to get drunk on.

Surprised by the sudden smell of smoke surprised him and he glanced to the side, his eyes tracing some young man with a long cigarette holder, holding it delicately between his fingers. His eyes were sharp, almost smug, and Abel tried to look away before the other knew he was staring.

"You a Jap?" the one with the cigarette said, exhaling a bit of smoke that curled before dissipating in the busy air. "You have that look, you know, and it doesn't look good in a place like this."

"Ah, no, I'm not from there," Abel said in a awkward fashion, "I'm from France."

"But where are you _really_ from?"

"France, I told you." Frowning at the sight of the annoyance on his face, Abel sighed, realizing what he meant. "I'm Korean."

"Korean, huh?" His lips lingered on the word like it was dirty, a smirk pulling at his lips. "You have a Korean name, then? Your English is good."

Abel's eyes flashed, his grip on his drink tightening. "That's because I grew up speaking English."

"Not French?"

"No, I never lear-"

"That's good. One might think your loyalties lie elsewhere, even if we are technically allies. Pity about Korea, though. Aren't all the Gooks under the rule of those damn Japanese?" The young man laughed, glancing down at Abel before inhaling from his cigarette again. "At least I'm not pathetic like that." Extending a free hand towards him, he exhaled. "Sol. I'm a regular. You are?"

Distrustfully, Abel shook his hand slowly before drawing back quickly, which only seemed to elicit satisfaction from Sol. "Abel.

* * *

 **And that's it.**

 **Originally, I had a storyline where I enter in Finn with Aspen and they have good times talking and whatnot. And then Abel would talk with Leah about their annoyance to how the other people view them. I was planning on giving Sol and Kellan some interaction and I didn't have a plan for Savannah and Piper but I hardly plan out most of my stories.**

 **I've had this fragment in my docs since January.**


	29. Chapter 29

**Some stories in the past and (obviously uncanon) stories in the "future". Sorry I rushed this! Some of the parts might be inconsistent or redundant or fragmented.**

 **im v sorry there is so much Aspen in here**

* * *

 _past_

Perched on his mother's hip, Aspen hated how the embroidered and sequined fabric scratched against his cheek when he tried to curl shyly against her shoulder. Often, other people would want to go over to his mother to speak with her and they would prod at him and laugh lightly, speaking in high-pitched babying voices that scared him. They weren't unkind, but the excessive attention was overbearing and sometimes he wished he could curl up into nothing, a concept that his young mind couldn't yet articulate.

"Oh, yes, he'll be four this coming December," his mother said with a smile, brushing his hair lightly with a gloved hand. "Aspen, darling, won't you say hello?"

He was silent, staring at the person she was talking with in mute curiosity. They were a faerie, no doubt – that much he could grasp – but all he could see was that they were dressed in odd clothing like they were going to a fancy party and he wondered if he might go to the party as well. Reaching forward, the faerie pinched his cheek lightly before pointing and turning to his mother again.

"Ophelia, those _are_ strange marks he has," the faerie remarked, gesturing at the bright flecks on his skin. "From whom does he get them?"

"Certainly not his father, but then again, Aspen always has taken more after me." His mother's complexion was clear, her skin the colour of a cream pearl but the only odd faerie mark her skin adorned was a miniscule white Calla lily under her left eye. "There have always been odd marks in my bloodline. You ought to remember that – especially after my mother invited you to dine with her."

His mother was always talking about nonsensical things he didn't understand, like bloodlines and marks and status and whatnot. She promised he'd understand later but he'd wake up every morning to it not being 'later enough'. After a few more minutes of chatting, she adjusted Aspen on her hip and let him play with her long black hair.

"His father is heading over," Ophelia said, kissing the faerie on the cheek as a farewell. "But we'll come by soon. Send us some letters on how you get along. If you need help, money is no issue for us."

When the faerie nodded and moved to leave, his mother turned to a tall figure approaching from the distance. Aspen watched. His mother had always called him 'his father' but he couldn't understand why since he was gone almost all hours of the day. In the smudge of his father's face, he could only make out sharp green eyes that were so pale, they looked as if they were drained of colour altogether.

Picking up Aspen's hand, Ophelia waved at him, her smile soft and cautious. "Say hello – hello."

"You know he hardly talks," his father muttered when he came closer. "It's your Seelie blood that's made him a retard-"

"Don't call him that. He's perfectly smart, just quiet," she said, sighing and dropping Aspen's hand. "And you're scaring him. He can understand you, you know."

Aspen was far too busy staring at his father's wings to be concerned with what he had to say about him. They were large and black and feathered and he wanted to touch them and feel the softness but he knew that, that would only be asking for his father's anger. Once, he had pulled a feather from them when he was two and had been yelled at and shaken for not keeping his hands to himself. His mother had no wings, which she said was 'a strange turn of genetics', but he didn't see why she was so concerned. After all, his own wings were annoying and all of his clothes had to be cut to keep them comfortable.

"The Sinclairs have invited us over for a masquerade next Sunday." His father crossed his arms, brown hair falling across his forehead. "You had better not decline. Surely you have some honor left if you want to spare Aspen from any embarrassment. A family like ours must remain honorable if we are constantly in a spotlight of-"

"Do _not_ speak to me about honor. If anyone knows anything about honor, it's me and my family."

The vibrations of his mother's voice ran through her body as she tensed and Aspen shied away quietly, deciding he didn't want to be a part of any conversation between her and his so-called father. He cried out, though, when he was ripped from her side and set on the ground, forced to stand instead. When he looked up and to the side, he found that his father was looming beside him, his expression challenging.

"I'm taking him back to the house," his father resolved, grabbing Aspen's hand so he didn't think to walk off. "Maybe if he spends less time in your company, he'll grow up to become something."

"You'll make him cruel." Knowing better than to argue further, his mother sighed and looked away. "Please, take care of him. I'll be back later. I have places I need to be."

"Of course." His expression grew sharp. "You _always_ have places to be.

The comment was a hiss and Aspen had no time to ponder over it for his father was already pulling him down the street. For once, undistracted by his mother, he noticed for the first time that he had never seen any other faerie children in the Towns. Only him…though he didn't know what he'd do if he did see another faerie child.

"Stop staring off into space," his father reprimanded sharply. "Hell, that woman has made you soft, hasn't she? Listen to me, Aspen-" he stopped suddenly, lowering himself to be at Aspen's eye level, "-Don't listen to her. She's going to make you soft and stupid and an accessory for her friends to gawk at. But you can be better than that."

There was no affection in his words and Aspen found himself suddenly wanting to run away and go back to his mother. The words didn't make sense in his head and he wasn't sure what to 'gawk at' meant and he rocked back and forth on his heels instead.

"Never mind. I doubt you're smart enough to know what I'm saying, anyway." Straightening, his father pressed a hand against his back to force him forward. "I hope you know that I won't tolerate that from any son of mine."

* * *

Wiping off his pistol, Nyx waved a few people behind him to go check the corridors of whatever place they were in. He didn't care whose it was, but it looked like it was hosting a party and it smelled unmistakably of money. With the side of his shoe, he prodded a faerie on the ground, relaxing when they were limp. He wasn't fond of any trouble. Putting his pistol away, he kneeled to quickly remove an expensive looking ring from the faerie's hand before standing up to start away down a different hall.

Shadowhunters didn't care much about unaffiliated faeries and what they did. In fact, when it came to anything that happened between Downworlders, the Nephilim often turned a blind eye. As long as it didn't affect their pretty Institutes, they didn't raise a blade.

His footsteps were quiet and muffled across a rug as he glanced from side to side, his pointed teeth sinking into his lip as his eyes narrowed in concentration. Whoever owned the house certainly wasn't as smart as they were wealthy. It seemed as if everything was unprotected and Nyx was more than eager to explore what hidden treasures the rooms might have. He reached the end of the hallway in his search, extending a hand to open a door. It was a bedroom, complete with a dresser and a lavish set of sheets that spread across the bed, adorned with some heavy fabric that hung near the floor.

Noticing the lack of personal possessions in the room, he continued on, not wanting to waste his time.

The next couple rooms were the same, letting the doors swing open as he passed by them. At one, though, a sash was hanging at the handle and he was careful to be quiet, turning the knob to push the door open. At first, the room looked the same as the rest and he was about to huff in disappointment until he realized that the covers of the bed were mussed.

All he could see was a smear of black hair against a white pillow and Nyx allowed himself to take a few steps inside, cringing as the floorboards creaked. His hand went to his gun again before he saw the figure shift and sit up tiredly.

"Hey, kid," Nyx said, keeping his voice low. "What's your name?"

In the shadows of the room, all he could see were two large green eyes and the slight silhouette of his frame. The boy was silent.

"I'm a friend of your parents," he lied easily, approaching the boy cautiously. "Is this your place?"

The boy shook his head quickly, picking up a pillow to bunch it in his hands and hold it against his chest. Nyx reached into his pocket to pull out a lighter, clicking it open so the small flame illuminated the room. In better lighting, he could finally make out the boy's features. Silver and gold flecks were speckled across his cheeks and his wings reflected a silver sheen back at him. His line of sight crossed over the boy and to the side dresser near the bed, focusing on an ivory dagger that lay there.

"What's your name?" Nyx insisted, walking over slowly.

"...Aspen." The boy winced away from the flame of the lighter.

"Hey, Aspen." Reaching forward with his free hand, he pulled the pillow away his chest. "You have to come with me, got it?"

Aspen's hands drew back from the pillow as Nyx tugged on it, immediately retrieving his dagger instead. He clutched the hilt with both of his hands, having never been taught how to use it; he doubted it was hard, though, as it was in his blood.

"Good. Bring that when we go," Nyx said, closing the lighter to slip into his pocket. "You wanna be good, right? I don't think your parents will be happy if they find out you didn't listen to me. Trust me on this. I can't lie."

"Are you taking me home?" He set the dagger down and rubbed his eyes before pushing the covers off, finding it odd that his mother would send for him in the middle of the night. "...Why-"

"There's no time for questions. You have to come with me." Reaching over, Nyx grabbed Aspen's hand to pull him from the bed, his nails digging into his wrist. "Get a move on, kid. To the doorway."

But Aspen froze, a bad feeling running through his head and Nyx could sense his hesitation, see it on his face, and sensed his fear. He clutched the boy's wrist, his grip impossibly tight as he other hand inched towards the pistol at his side. Faintly, he could hear the people he had come with calling his name and he lifted his head, grinding his teeth. Soot-coloured hair fell in his eyes and he shook it away, finally yanking hard on his wrist to force him towards the door.

"Get the hell up and hurry," he hissed, his demeanor shifting and his eyes contracted into slits. "Or I'll hurt you, got it?"

At first, it seemed like Aspen was too afraid to fight back but then he lashed forward and Nyx reeled back, his cheek stinging. Swearing loudly, he raised his hand to his cheek where a bit of blood started to well up in the scratches. Aspen had scrambled back to retrieve his dagger, looking more like a cat than a person as he crouched on the bed, holding the dagger out in front of him.

"You son-of-a-bitch," Nyx growled, wiping his cheek with a wince. "You're lucky I don't want to mar that face of yours. You're gonna pay for that."

When he took a step towards him, the boy swiped at him with the dagger, missing him by a hair. Quickly, Nyx reached for his pistol, pointing it at the boy. He'd never shoot him, not with what he could gain from him, but Aspen froze and the dagger slipped from his hand and back onto the covers.

"Hey, guys," Nyx called out, raising his voice so the others could hear him. He pressed the barrel of his pistol against the boy's forehead. "Come and look what I found. I think it's gonna be a real sweetheart."

* * *

 _future_

His room was plain, though Steff hadn't expected much, and the only hint of personalization was a stack of books on the desk. Straining to see from where she was sitting, she could only read that they were mostly textbooks and nonfiction. On the other side of the room where a desk was pushed against the wall, a row of empty vials were lined up meticulously, stained with whatever contents that had been inside of them. Cole's glove was dangling on the edge, looking seemingly mundane in the midst of everything.

"Did it stop?" Steff asked to break the awkward silence, looking over slowly. He was sitting beside her, a washcloth covering his mouth and nose. When he gave a muffled answer, she didn't pry, not knowing what she'd say in response anyway.

After another minute, he reached over to drop the washcloth into a nearby rubbish bin, the white fabric already stained beyond repair.

"Well," Cole said in a matter-of-fact tone, wiping a bit of blood that streaked across his face. "I'm basically fucked."

" _Cole._ You don't have to say things like _that_ ," she said, uncomfortable to hear him swear. "You shouldn't take things like this lightly. And…I'm sure we'll find a way to make it better."

He laughed once, leaning his head back against the wall. "You don't have to pretend to be so concerned. We haven't been on very good terms as of late."

"You talk like we're…we're business partners, or something like that." Disappointed, she rested her hands in her lap, wishing she had put her hair in a braid so she had something to fiddle with. Her expression turned a little embarrassed as a thought crossed her mind and she hesitated to voice it. "Do you think, if none of this had happened…"

He gazed at her from the side expectantly, his fingers working a hospital wristband off. It was dumb that he had gone, knowing that mundanes couldn't do anything, but as long as they could prescribe him something to ease whatever symptoms the poison was causing, it was enough.

"Do you think we would have been friends?" She shook her head quickly. "I know, it's a silly question and you're going to say it's stupid but-"

He didn't have to think long to answer. "I don't think we would have. We're far too different and I think the only reasons why we ever became friends was forced propinquity."

A look of surprise crossed her face. "So…We are friends-"

" _Were_. We _were_ friends maybe once for the quickest split second a while ago but I don't think there's any room in my life for friendship, nor was there ever any room for anything else. I've never had much empathy, you know that, and nor will I but I could almost feel a little bad for wasting so much of your time and-…" Another headache seared through his thoughts and he grew quiet, his features growing blank. "…And by the Angel, can't they just kill me a little faster? I'm getting a little tired of all of this."

She frowned, unsure of how to answer his constant stream of snarky comments. He never seemed to listen to much of what she said and she never liked to think she failed people, but he was often like a leech to her good spirits.

He continued on before she could comment, hollow amusement in his words. "I was thinking maybe I should have gone into that doctor stuff instead of changing my major between languages and business and psychology a million times because I've realized that it's not really helping me and my current situation."

"You'll complete your major the end of this semester, right?" she said, glad to change the subject. Though some mundane concepts were still a little confusing for her to grasp, the time she had worked at Starbucks had given her some knowledge to work on.

"Yes. I'll never get to use it, but it's not like I came here so I could get a job. Anyway-" When he moved to stand, a noticeable fit of lightheadedness passed over his expression and Steff jumped to her feet to set a hand against his arm, just in case. "I'm _fine_ ," he insisted in annoyance, pushing her hand away.

She furrowed her eyebrows. "I just worry. That's all. You were about to say something else, though."

"I have to go. I made plans."

A hint of doubt glimmered in her eyes. "Oh. You never said. Where?"

"It isn't any of your business," Cole retorted, his words biting. "Is it, Stephanie?"

"There's no need to be like that," she said, her fingers instantly moving to smooth her hair. "I just wanted to know, but I never said you had to say. I just worry."

"Where I go," he started, "Isn't really for little girls."

She tried to bite her tongue, really tried, but she couldn't help but let out of a quick sigh of frustration. "I am _not_ a little girl. And just because you're set on trying to…to…condemn yourself, it doesn't mean you have to be so rude and ungrateful to me when I'm the only person who ever made any attempt to be nice and hospitable and sometimes…sometimes I want to-"

"You want to _what,_ Stephanie?" Turning his gaze on her, he kept a hand braced against the wall for balance, his breaths quick and shallow. "That's an awful lot of words you've decided to come up with."

"Me trying to help isn't about caring, because I've always wanted to help everyone. You, out of everyone, should know that." Drawing back quickly, she took a step away from him. "It's about being a _good_ person. About being a _kind_ person and a decent human being."

"Ah, but you forget-" his eyes darkened, "-we're hardly human."

* * *

Connor hadn't wanted to, but he had moved out of the New York Institute on his twenty third birthday to start a new life traveling the world. Although he had grown attached to New York and a few select people that he was glad to call his friends, the halls held little comfort in them and the rune on his hand seemed to place an everlasting ache in his chest that started to grow unbearable.

For nearly five years, he bounced about different Institutes. He had learned Tagalog in the Philippians, struggled at German, visited relatives in Greenland, Russia, and Vietnam, and traveled across China to practice his Mandarin. Often, he'd reach to the side to touch his brother's hand to point out something he found amusing, but his fingers always skated across empty air and he was silent. Sometimes, people didn't remember he once had a sibling, for they had often been so alike that people saw them as one as if they were viewing them with 3d glasses that merged their reflections onto each other to form a whole.

Somehow, he ended up in London, a little disoriented as he was thrust back into western culture. English was unfamiliar on his tongue and his vocabulary was suddenly so small, so limited.

There was a word he knew in Russian - тоска - and it was something like intense longing. Often, he felt тоска if he stayed in one place too long so he traveled to different places frequently as if he could outrun the ghosts of his past.

London was cold and dreary, but he was often unaffected by the weather. Instead, he welcomed the change of scenery with open arms and made himself comfortable in one of the free rooms in the Institute. People seemed to avoid him, whether it was by accident or on purpose, but he didn't mind. He never had much to say to anyone anyway.

Coming back from a demon hunt with a scratch on his cheek, Connor sheathed his sword and started up the Institute steps. Some Shadowhunter chatted with another in the distance of the front gardens and paid him no attention. Sometimes, when someone did catch his eyes to talk to him, he'd give them a boyish smile and try to be kind, but the years had spoiled his youth. He looked young still, having hardly changed from his time leaving the New York Institute; only his hair had lightened slightly and his arms were etched with more scars of faded runes. Shadowhunters, in spirit, tended to age quickly.

A smudge of blonde hair caught his attention as it disappeared in the door of the Institute and he increased his pace, drawing in a startled breath. The door unlocked under his fingertips and he swung it open, his attention drawn to the girl in front of him.

"Steff?" Connor said delightedly, surprise clear on his features. "By the Angel-"

She hadn't changed much either, but he still wasn't used to seeing her in Shadowhunter gear and he noted that she had cut her hair. A few curls were pulled behind her ears and pinned to keep it from falling in her face, yet she was still the same.

"I didn't know you were visiting here," Steff greeted him and she smiled, tilting her head up to look at him. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"You haven't...haven't changed at all." Gesturing at her with one of his hands, he bit his bottom lip to stop a grin. "How have you been?"

"I've been...alright. I think we've all had our ups and downs in the past years," she said and her fingers traveled to the ends of her hair, pulling on it slightly before she let her hands settle at her sides. "I'd give you a hug, but I think I'd burn myself."

"Ah-...Yeah, best to not do that," he agreed, looking down at the ichor on his sleeves. "I'd hate to send you to the Infirmary. But...why are you here?"

"I took some advice when someone once told me to travel." She reached out to touch his hand in a friendly manner, starting to the hall. "Here, let's keep walking. I want to catch up, but I'd rather you not be sent to the Infirmary as well."

Nodding, he started after her. "I didn't think you'd come _here_. Not when your parents..."

"I'm only here to pick up a few things," she clarified, glancing around the halls. "At least I still remember my way around."

"Well, even if you're only going to be here for a little bit, it's good to see a friend. Raziel knows I haven't seen a familiar face in a long time..." His tone grew somber as if he was just realizing lost time. Slowly, he looked down at his palm, his eyes tracing the mourning rune that reminded him every morning of what he was traveling for. "It's...really good to see you. Honestly."

"Oh, don't make me sentimental." She glanced over at him, her eyes bright. "Do you have any plans soon?"

"Well...I'll be twenty eight next month," he answered, pondering. "And so I'll be travelling to Puerto Rico. I've already filled out my forms to help there. Other than that...I've just been hanging in there."

"It's what we do best."

Steff looked over the rooms before letting him lead so he could find where he was staying. His gear jacket was singed in some parts by the ichor. It was only after training and going on hunts that she was able to laugh at the number of jackets and daggers and swords and arrows they went through a month. Stopping at his door, Connor moved to unlock it.

"Now, before I get on with what I've been doing," he said, pushing his door open, "You have to get me updated on what has been going on at the New York Institute."

At his request, Steff laughed, waiting at the doorway for him to get a new jacket. "Oh...By the Angel. Let's see. Well, right after you left..."


	30. Chapter 30

**HAHA**

 **Okay, so I actually started this in January because I wanted to have a small and SHORT continuation of the WW1 christmas storyline...But I lost all motivation to complete. I've been adding bits and pieces every month or so...So here I am now, with an unfinished story that I decided to post almost a YEAR later because I don't think I'll be able to finish this one anytime soon, so maybe there will be a part 3. It's a bit clunky, since the characters have changed so much in the past year through the months, so there are many personality discrepancies - I apologize for that ahahaha. Also, some of the facts are wrong, but I'm no history buff and, frankly, America has been in so many wars that they all start to blend together. Sorry the ending is so rushed!**

* * *

Striking a match once he turned the stove on, Aspen lowered the flame to the gas, watching it catch. He headed to the sink to fill a kettle with water, watching it as it grew heavier in his hand till he reached over delicately to twist the faucet off. Setting the kettle over the flame, he stared at it for a few moments, his fingers lingering over the handle.

Quickly, he pulled them back when the heat started to curl at his skin and he started into the main room. A little bit short of breath, he counted out some capsules on a table, swallowing them dry.

He had never been particularly rich nor had he been extremely poor. Able to afford necessities and a few extras on the side, he prided himself in not being stuck in the gutter after the war, as most people were. It had probably been since he still got support checks from a friend that sent him a bit of extra money that he owed every month and the fact that, because of his three years in English prison, he really hadn't spent all too much anyway.

A bit of fading sunlight filtered through the room between the slits of heavy red curtains. A smudge of beige paint had chipped off the edge of his door but it was hardly noticeable against the tan plaster underneath. A violin was perched on a low-rise table he had purchased from an obscure oriental shop, though he had little idea how to play. Only a few times had he managed to wring a few sweet notes from it; thus, he had been discouraged. Shrugging off his coat, he let it fall across a chair where it sagged off the corner and he sat back onto it, resting a hand over his eyes as he leaned back. Faintly, he could hear the footsteps of people down the street and he let his eyes flutter shut.

Things hadn't always been so calm.

Sometimes, in the back of his head, he'd see the dark damp walls of the prison. He'd managed to cause a bit of a stir, often in a bad way, and found himself ducking punches and make-shift knives that were threatened to his throat. He had been called a number of things, from brownie to philerast to angel- of which he later learned the real meaning- and was even nicknamed ' _chapero_ ' by some Cuban boy that he didn't remember the name of. It wasn't as bad as they made it out in the books, but he figured that they were hardly their main priority with the war going on. With his head still attached to his body, he figured his years in prison had gone just fine.

His rest was interrupted by a knock at the door and he pushed himself up, having expected company. Slowly, he drew the door open, his eyes tilting to the sun before at the person on his doorstep.

"Cas," he greeted in a friendly manner. "I'm glad you came...Come in," Aspen encouraged as he ushered Caspian inside, reaching to take his coat. His fingers curled in the heavy fabric- it was like holding wealth- and he set it on the chair. "How…How are things going along? You must be bored to come around on such a nice day. Either that, or you wanted a nice day and I'm the only method of obtaining it."

Caspian removed his hat, which had mussed his hair slightly. His mouth was a taut bow, the sharp and pleasing lines of his face drawn in a look of scrutiny and suspicion. A faint scar showed itself when he looked to the side and his collar pulled down slightly, baring the thin, white line. There was a regal hint in his posture that he maintained and Aspen felt a pang of empathy before quickly pushing it away and going to the kitchen instead to silence the whistling kettle.

"If I wanted a nice day," Caspian said finally, his eyes drawn to a bookshelf tucked in the corner of the room, "I would have been accepting a purple heart."

Aspen's eyebrows shot up in curiosity, setting the kettle precariously on the counter. "Oh?"

"I can do better than something like that." As if it served as a legitimate reason, Caspian walked over to the bookshelf to pick up a book, his expression growing carefully guarded. " _Imre_?"

"It's rather dry. Not at all what I was expecting when I heard the controversy around it," Aspen answered, tipping the kettle to pour the steaming water into cups. "You should read it."

"You're not very convincing."

A sultry shade laced his tone. "Would you like me to convince you?"

Caspian coughed pointedly, letting the book fall from his hand back onto the bookshelf. "Definitely not."

Refusing to let up on the topic, Aspen gave a sniff of disapproval. "Achilles and Patroclus were both written in a romantic fashion in reference to each other," he said, steeping tea bags in the cups slowly. "That was the eighth century."

Crossing his arms, Caspian refused to seem uncomfortable. "That's different."

" _Oh?_ How so?"

"You're an ethel…and that's _literature_."

"And isn't literature inspired by real life? I certainly like to think that I inspire a great deal of art and artful thinking," Aspen said and smiled back at him, his green eyes glimmering. "I'm definitely artistic in terms of my interests. And in terms of myself…But if my talks are making you embarrassed, we can speak of artillery and war tactics if you'd like."

Caspian made a defiant expression, a bit of smouldering annoyance alight in his features. "I'm not embarrassed. You must mistake me for a child. The only one here who acts childish, I'm sure, is you."

Aspen had been about to make a biting comment but stopped, shaking his head and silencing himself with a sip of his tea. He sauntered into the main room, forcing a cup into Caspian's hands. For a moment, he lingered, watching him in a manner of concealed endearment before brushing past him to put the book back in its spot, his own teacup balanced in his hand. From across the room where Caspian had wandered, a shaking noise disrupted the silence and a few pills clattered across a table. They rolled about until they halted at a few papers and Caspian flicked one with the tip of his finger without much care before glancing down at the label.

"You're sick?" he assumed, fighting a frown.

" _Was_ sick. And I hardly felt bad at all," Aspen stressed, walking over to set his tea down and snatch the bottle from his hand. "Don't mess with my things. You're nosier than I am."

"What was it? They used that stuff for soldiers that had infections and the sorts." Slowly, Caspian straightened, a twinge of pain crossing his features although it was quickly smoothed over with a sort of expressionless visage.

"My immune system was all messed up after England, so I got a mild cold. It's all gone now, mind you, but the doctor still wants me to be careful."

"So it's not that bad," Caspian said decidedly. "Were you just trying to get a prescription for drugs?"

"I didn't invite you over to talk about that." Bored, Aspen pulled at his tie to loosen it, setting down the pill bottle back where it had originally been. "That's an utterly dry subject."

"Why did you invite me over, then?"

"No reason, really." Biting his lip, Aspen stifled a smile. "But stay awhile, will you? Sit, sit. I'll get us some drinks."

* * *

Steff's bag had more or less been her chance at freedom, but also what stood in the way of it.

She never had many books at one time, but only one would fit in her bag along with her pencils and folded clothes and what money she could scrounge up. She didn't dare sneak into her parent's room to take money from the box they hid under the bed, but she had almost considered it. In the end, though, she hadn't managed to go through with it and guilt ate away at her at the very thought of stealing.

Reaching, she snagged a hat on her fingertips, lifting it to pull it over her tightly braided hair. She had folded a corset in her bag, as a habit per her parents, although she doubted she'd need it in the changing times. They had always stressed S-lines and ivory bone busks, though she was sure they were still stuck in their old fashioned ways. Girls that she saw hardly wore corsets like those and she couldn't help but feel slightly dated.

So she packed her most comfortable one, with elastic inserts that allowed her to breathe and move. Without her parents, she wasn't too concerned with their judgement.

The bulk of her clothes allowed for little room for the other items to be packed, but she made do, staring longingly at the few books she did have that she'd have to leave behind. A copy of _Emma_ made it into her hand and she slipped it into the bag.

From what she could see out of her window, it was still fairly dark and hardly dawn. She had grown up in the horse-tracked bluffs where the fields changed with the seasons, forming and popping like soapsuds. There was a patchy beige barn in the distance, stripped naked from the wind and the elements. If she made it to the stalls quickly enough, she knew, she could spend her time there with the horses, letting her fingers wander through their mane before returning to her house and her parents and her brother. _Like a good daughter_ , she thought bitterly.

Homesickness to her, she realized though, was not the longing for a big house in the countryside and a cornfield, but a walk through the city with the people mulling about and the smell of pastries and rain lingering in the street. She tired of the grass and her far-off neighbors and conservative parents and longed for a bit of danger that came with the changing times. That idea both enticed her, and scared her.

From her place on her rug, she reached over to the window to pull the curtains shut, casing her room in the dim burning light of a candle that sat at the edge of her room.

"Where do you think you're going, Stephanie?"

Startled, Steff jumped slightly, looking up at the door from her place on the rug.

"I asked you a question, Stephanie," Loki sneered, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway. A bandage was still wrapped around his arm from when he had come back prior from customs. She swallowed and her hand hovered over her bag, shying away from him. The smell of alcohol clung to his clothes and a smirk clung to his expression.

"Into town," Steff answered, willing and praying for her voice to not waver. "Just for a bit. I…I was thinking of getting a gift for mother-…I know she's been under the weather."

"You really trying to convince me that you give a damn if _dear_ mother has a cold. God knows you've disappointed them time and time again," he remarked, walking slowly, smugly into her room, picking up a book from her dresser. "Really, you should try to think of a better lie." He flipped over the book in his hand, bored and unimpressed. He let it dangle from his hand, his fingertips pinched around a few pages and they ripped ever so slightly at the base where they hung precariously. "Are you still into these things? I thought you had outgrown such stupid things."

" _They're_ not the stupid thing in here," she mumbled under her breath, her fingers grasping the fabric of her bag, tightening her grip slightly.

Loki raised his chin, letting the book clatter to the floor where it landed with a dull thump. She reached for the book quickly, her hand braced against the bag as she extended her other hand to grab it. As soon as she did, though, her brother lowered to yank on her arm up where she yelped as the bag hit the floor. Unintentionally, she winced but kept silent; she knew more than well her place in the household and talking back or badly to his face wasn't one of them.

"I'd shut up, Stephanie, if I were you. God knows what happens to dumb, little girls that can't keep their mouth shut," Loki hissed, his breath against her cheek and she tried to draw back but he gripped her arm tighter. "Now, if you're not back by ten, I'll tell mother and she'll really make sure you regret ever being born. You understand, little sister?"

"I'll-…I'll be back by ten," Steff answered hesitantly, although her eyes gleamed in defiance, pulling away quickly when Loki let go of her arm. Although he was hard to please, and even harder to not anger, he wasn't very smart. "I wouldn't want to anger anyone."

"Good. And later, you'll have to clean up in the drawing room," Loki ordered, straightening. "We have guests coming and our parents would hate for you to disappoint them. _Again_."

* * *

"Mmm. There's nothing wrong with a bit of fun now and again," Aspen laughed, stretching back on the couch, a bottle dangling from his fingers. "C'mere, Cas, sweetheart." He extended a free hand to him, beckoning him with a finger and a wanton smile. "Cas, Cas, Cas. We should catch up."

"We _did_ catch up. And you talk far too much. A few of your…consorts even said so when we had to fight together in the fifth regiment," Caspian replied, sitting down on the couch where Aspen hadn't yet occupied. "And-…" He found it frustrating when he couldn't find the things to say and he swished his glass about, watching it and thinking that Aspen often encouraged made him make stupid decisions. "You ask too many questions and you're far too…"

"Charming?"

" _Persistent._ "

A drunken giggle escaped Aspen's lips and he set his bottle down, sitting up to drape an arm over his shoulder. "Tell me Cas, have I ever charmed you?"

"On the contrary, I don't think you could charm anyone in this state," Caspian remarked, running his free hand through his hair. He pushed Aspen's arm from his shoulder, but the alcohol had dulled the pain in his shoulder. "And definitely not me."

"You're such a stickler all the time." Growing serious, Aspen removed his arm, looking a little uncoordinated as he reached up to play with a bit of Caspian's blonde hair. "How are you? How are you…really?"

"I should have known better than to drink with you." Scowling half-heartedly, Caspian took a swig from his glass, swallowing as if to give himself a bit of liquid recklessness. "And I'm annoyed."

"With me?" Aspen paused for a long while when there was no answer and he sighed. It was difficult, sometimes, to skirt around the things, the real things he wanted to ask and he hated the silence after he asked them. Burning curiosity grew and he could not help but push for answers.

Caspian, it had been known, was the child of some rich military general that was a stickler for rules and those sort of laws. Too naïve on all sorts of government politics, all that Aspen knew was that some scandal had happened and that forced the general's son into a guilty spot of shame. There had been rumours that he had committed some illegal act that forced him to flee to the middle of combat, but Aspen refused to believe any of them. Caspian, he was sure, went to war for the hell of it- it seemed like something he'd do. Of course, Finn and Kellan had assumed Aspen wanted in on some of the money that came with his bloodline, but that wasn't true at all. Simply, he was in a fitful boredom that left him hungry for something reckless and something dangerous, and by God, did Caspian prove sufficient.

"Maybe I'll bug your father to give us the military supply of whiskey," Aspen joked carefully, his gaze unfocused and merry. "And maybe mend ties. I'm good at fixing all sorts of problems. And causing them."

"You speak to him, Aspen, and I'll murder you. I don't need him thinking that I sent some commoner over to fix up my problems," Caspian said decidedly, shaking his head as if the idea was preposterous. "And...and you really have no right to inquire about him."

"C'mon, Cas. You know a little somethin' somethin' about me. It's only right you tell me a bit." Moving to rest his head against his shoulder, he did a messy hail Mary. "I haven't prayed since Alabama, but I swear I'll do it if you'll tell me a little bit about something that went on."

"You? _Praying?_ That'd be a sight for the both of us."

Aspen reached for the glass with the alcohol, raising it till it touched Caspian's lips. "Then spill. You need a bit of encouragement? I can certainly provide encouragement. Endless encouragement and-" He giggled, his hand steady with the glass. "Charming-ness."

"You're only _this_ ridiculous when you're drunk," Caspian muttered, grabbing the glass from him to down it, leaning forward to put it unsteadily on the table. "I don't want to talk about my father."

"Then let's talk about your shoulder. You got injured, right? Is it going to heal?" Aspen's hand drifted over to his shirt over Caspian's shoulder, his fingers knotting in the fabric. He tilted his chin up to watch him, wetting his bottom lip demurely. "Does it hurt?"

On any normal day, Caspian would have pushed him away firmly, but carefully, and gone to make himself another glass, but he just shook his head and frowned. "They said it'll be...messed up for a while. The bullet lodged in the back and permanently damaged a few things. I won't accept a purple heart, though. That's like accepting-accepting-…"

"A weakness?"

Caspian made a reluctant sound of agreement.

"Who was it that made you drop a rank once?" Aspen mused aloud thoughtfully. "Sol?"

"I could kill him," Caspian said suddenly, his tone sharp and angry and imprudent. "He's a commie, a bastard commie, I'm sure. I don't see how the others haven't caught on it yet." Pressing a hand against his forehead, he finished with an angry interjection. "An idiot that's going to leak secrets, war secrets, to the damned Russians. I tell you, in another twenty years, there's going to be trials and such to kill all of them."

"Oh? And you think America is so high and high and mighty? Aren't…aren't we allies with Russia?"

"I don't trust them. They're power hungry."

Aspen rolled his eyes, extending a hand messily to lay against his cheek. "You're just saying that because you had a drink and you're all charged up to kill, as usual. You're reckless."

He paused, his grey eyes catching onto his words with a hint of looseness that reflected the empty glass in front of him. "Charged up to kill? Is that what you think of me?"

"Never mind, Cas," Aspen said and tripped as he rose, catching himself on the edge of the couch. "Just sit there. I'll get you another drink."

* * *

Tilting a three-cornered hat over her eyes, Steff hurried down the road, her bag slung over her shoulder. If she calculated correctly, it was a twenty minute ride by automobile to the station, which had guaranteed her a long, strenuous walk. A wet newspaper fluttered near her and she sidestepped it slowly enough to read the headline: Stock Market Millionaire Scores Big. All traces of the war had been wiped away and she raised her chin, a bit of sun filtering through the trees in the distance.

The weight of her bag dug into her shoulder, the strap of her oxford pumps equally painful as she walked. The fluttering of her long, straight skirt skimmed her shins but stockings shielded her skin from the cold. Her home was farther, much farther back than she could see and she didn't dare look back, enamoured with the promise of independence and cigarette smoke and a spot for a woman journalist. Her brother hadn't bothered to call her a taxi, being far into the countryside, and she almost didn't mind, her braid soon unraveling from the pins against her head so it was one long plait of blonde hair down her back.

Train tracks etched the grass, puffing smoke into the air and she quickened her pace, her fingers clutching her bag as she started to run, pulling out a slip of paper from a pocket in her satchel. The station was bare, save for a few geese, and even they flew off once she pulled off the side of the road to catch the morning train.

"Ah, here's my commutation ticket," she said, handing the conductor the paper at the window. "I thought I would miss the train, so I'm glad-"

"Yeah, look lady, just get on the train," answered the conductor gruffly, handing her back the ticket. "We're on a schedule."

"Of-…of course," Steff stammered, suddenly berating herself for speaking. Shoving her ticket in her bag, she swung up onto the side, pushing her way up the steps to board the sad, empty train. She sat across from a white taxi man, an expensive looking pin decorated upon the lapel of his cotton coat and she offered a small nervous smile but he ignored it, flipping over his page of the daily paper. With a sigh, she set her bag upon her lap, the corner of a book poking relentlessly into her arm as she clung to it ceaselessly. The train jolted perhaps once or twice to stop at a few other country stations before speeding off to the city.

It was cold. Condensation clung to the windows of the traincar the way smoke would cling to clothes and her arms prickled with bumps in the air. A woman near her tried to comfort her child while her husband sat impatiently, looking on to the ashes of the field that seemed to fade away, unseeing. A dirty world formed around her, rising out of the ground with drinking taverns and whorehouses and little autoshops that sold beat up wagons. A wooden theatre sported an old wooden sign that read 'for sale' on the front, but the lettering had swelled and bled to the point of illegibility. The traincar filled until it was pressed with people and Steff closed her eyes to push away the relentless force of the crowd around her that chattered about soda and stock markets and skirts and the war and it felt like her home and she stood up quickly, too quickly and she had to catch her bag before the contents spilled out and the people themselves spilled out at the station and Steff found herself free.

"See her now, the goddess of burlesque herself," a man in a pinstripe suit called out, handing out fliers to wanton men. "You'll want to spend your night entangled with Ivy. See her now, the goddess of burlesque, opening act with her crew."

A woman with louche makeup flaunted around the crowds, a smudge of red lipstick on her mouth bright against the pale of her face. Her eyebrows had been plucked to thin, angular lines that raised her brow bone and accentuated the sharpness of her eyes. She raised her hand to give a flirtatious wave to a man and white powder glittered on her fingertips. Fringe at her knees swayed when she walked, her figure thin and willowy and Steff stared at her in mute curiosity. The woman looked ahead of her time, her chin tilted up in a way that most women didn't understand, and her thick hair had been effectively pinned up to her ears.

During the war, Steff had grown used to quiet cities with kind bakers and simple bookstores that she would steal away without her brother knowing. Now, they were less enticing that they were in her grasp and all she yearned for was a room and bed.

Her gaze traveled to the docks that had once housed the warships and she started on her way, welcoming the tangy scent of the sea that the breeze carried with it.

She had tried to leave home once or twice before, convinced that at her age, she should be out in the world rather than serving as her family's maid, but she hadn't the courage. Every now and again her brother would snatch a book from her fingers and cast it into the fireplace and she was convinced that she'd run. Then, soon after, she'd visit the stables and remember that she shouldn't…couldn't make stupid decisions. Her brother would often remind her of the stupid decisions she'd make now and again, from spilling a drink to tripping over her feet to forgetting a chore. _It's a new world_ , Steff reminded herself; once she had gotten her articles discreetly published in the papers, it had been more than enough to finally encourage her run from her home. Her family wouldn't miss her anyway.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, the crowd dying down as she slipped from the main city to what neared the suburbs. She ran a gloved hand against the railing of a schoolyard and bit down a rise of nervousness. No, she'd turn back home, apologize again and again and-…Tilting her head up to the morning sun, she managed a sigh. This was much, _much_ better.

A few small boys in corduroy ran past her, their bookbags thumping against their side as they darted with childish laughter. Two little girls in gingham dresses boarded a school bus and Steff observed in curiosity; she had never been to a public school. From a young age to fourteen, her parents had invested in a teacher to give her the necessary information. Her brother, on the other hand, had been fed from a silver spoon, allowed to continue his education although he became no smarter. He read 'philosophical' research anthologies about the plight of the wealthy and spoke incessantly about his superiority. Steff never said much against him. She had been too careful either way to raise a bad comment about his behaviour anyway.

"Come on, Charles," a woman called to her child, crouching to call a young boy over. "Your nanny is waiting for you."

Steff watched her for a moment, admiring her long brown hair. Personally, she had never liked letting her hair out and she reached up with her free hand to tuck a curl of blonde hair behind her ear. As she stood there, the woman picked up her son, carrying him on her hip to her car. Vaguely aware of the ache in her shoulder, she adjusted her bag where she carried her home, herself, and everything that ever mattered to her.

"До свидания. Don't get into trouble," a schoolteacher called, dismissing a few children. Steff lifted her head quickly at the sound of a familiar voice although she couldn't place a name until she searched for the source, her eyes brightening a fraction.

"C-…Connor, right?" she started hesitantly, having only been given his Christian name. "I didn't know you worked here."

Slowly, Connor looked over, his eyes skimming over her before they settled on her face, a haze of recognition on his expression. He reached into the pockets of a slim wool coat, his fingers catching on the edge of a cigarette. With a sense of urgency, he set it between his teeth to light with a match, tossing the splinter of wood to the ground. All the time while watching her, he inhaled the smoke slowly, anxiously.

"I teach Russian," he answered finally, exhaling. "It-…it was the only school around this area that would allow it...With the communist scare and all that..."

"Oh. That's good you found a place like this, then," Steff commented politely before biting her lip as if she were embarrassed. "I don't know this area, if I'm honest...Do you know how to get to Williamsburg? I have a friend there. I don't mean to bother you. Are you still working?"

"I have another class at noon," Connor said, calming with each drag of his cigarette. "So in around...three and a half hours, if I remember. Many children only come to early morning classes."

Suddenly remembering how she had last seen him, Steff formed her words carefully, pausing. "So you're a teacher. Does your brother teach as well? I think I remember you mentioning him."

"He's _fine_. He's not taking visitors right now, so I don't like talking about him without him around," Connor responded sharply, his eyes darkening into an emotion that Steff couldn't place. Uncomfortable, Steff rubbed the shoulder that had been supporting her bag, noting that he hadn't answered her question.

"Forgive my curiosity," she apologized immediately, taking a step back. "I don't mean to intrud-"

"It's fine."

"No, really-"

"If you go west long enough, there's a cafe in Williamsburg, around fifteen minutes from here by car," he offered suddenly, any hint of discomfort disappearing from face. "Next to it is a neighborhood where your friend might be at. I can drive you there if you'd like."

Although the idea was enticing, Steff gave him an odd look before remembering to look gracious at his offer. "I-...Um...That's not very _modest_ of me to go off with a near stranger," she excused. "Really, I don't mind going by bus or taxi."

" _Right_. I forgot. You're part of the _modest_ country folk. Don't worry about it, I understand," Connor said with a tilt of his head towards her.

Noticing his inclination towards the street, she inquired curiously, "Are you headed somewhere?"

"I have to pick up a few textbooks at the library that the school doesn't carry," he answered. "It's a pain, but at least it's just around the bend."

"I'm sure it's an annoyance," she sympathized easily, straightening up. "I won't keep you."

"I'll be off, then. Hopefully we'll run into each other sometime. We can talk about the paper or whatever suits you. Somehow, gossip doesn't seem like a topic fitting for us to talk over tea."

Nodding, Steff made sure to meet his gaze, giving him a hint of a smile. "I'd like that. It was good to talk to someone familiar."

"The city is a big place, Stephanie. Don't take any wooden nickels." In a friendly manner, Connor gestured at her loosely with his cigarette before starting off to a creme automobile at the end of the street, his coat moving slightly in the faint breeze.

Steff watched him inquisitively, letting her bag fall to her feet and she stood there, listening to the rustling of the leaves, the cars, and the people that ghosted down the street. And, for a moment, she let herself admire a little town of the big city, thinking that maybe once she'd be more than what had been prescribed to her by her family. Then, with a huff of breath, she reached for her bag again to start west.

* * *

Aspen only brought back one bottle, placing it in Caspian's hands when he returned. His attention settled on his own bottle, still perched on the table and he noticed that Caspian was watching it as well.

"You're not going to have another one?" Caspian asked, sounding displeased as he popped the bottle open with little effort. "Don't waste your drinks on me."

"You know I can't hold my alcohol. A sip and I'm doozy," Aspen protested and, as if to accentuate his drunken nature, sat down beside him to lean his head against his shoulder. "So take all you'd like. It's better than tea, much better than tea and the whole tea party and whatnot. And let's talk, shall we? I like talking."

"You hardly ever don't want to talk."

"I like talking about you."

Suddenly, Caspian's eyes flickered with suspicion, his fingers tight around the bottle as his features slowly settled into a null expression. "What are you getting at?"

"What do you mean?" Slowly, Aspen recoiled at his accusation.

"You hate alcohol. You hardly encourage it." His silver eyes darkened in thought, distrust hardwired into every cell of his body as he sat there silently. People: he couldn't trust them even if he wanted to trust Aspen but he was too snakeish for his own good and by God, how could he be so foolish? "I'm not stupid, Aspen. You're trying to get at something with all this."

Flicking off his concern, Aspen gave a laugh. "I know you're not stupid. On the contrary, sometimes I suspect you're much smarter than I am. I can't focus in this state. You ought to not talk of such things that my head can't currently wrap around. I'm drunk. Sloshed. Tipsy-"

"I need to go," Caspian said instinctively, standing up quickly and pausing to allow his vision to settle. "Aspen-"

"Plastered. Wrecked. Soused-"

Shaking his head with a hiss, he cast Aspen a look of exasperation before reaching for Aspen's bottle, which had been left on the table. He hadn't been paying attention and he picked up the drink in his free hand and it was heavier, much heavier than it should have been and Caspian stared at Aspen as he spoke, his voice feverish and nervous as he spit up words from a thesaurus in his head.

"Ossified, besotted-"

"You lied to me, Aspen."

"-Lashed-...Lied? No, I didn't. Why would I lie?"

Looking down at Aspen's bottle, Caspian set his jaw. "You're sober. Your drink is full."

Aspen's expression fell, his green eyes guarded as he realized his flaw. "Surely, you must be mistaken. I...I did drink. I wouldn't lie to you." He jumped to his feet alongside Caspian, reaching out to grab his arm. "Ah, you must be confused since you've had somethin' to drink."

"I don't see why you'd lie." His tone bordered feverish anger, setting the bottle back down. "I wanted to trust you wouldn't lie to me. And what was it for? Were you trying to get in my head? Make me...me talk so you'd have some advantage?"

"I'm not trying to take advantage of you," Aspen said quickly, immediately putting a hand against his cheek to try and comfort him. "I don't know where you're getting these ideas from. Not after everything we've gone through."

"I'm not stupid, Aspen." Caspian flinched away from his touch, a look of betrayal crossing his face. "What-...what are you trying to get at?" It was difficult to get the words out, the drinks making his thoughts muddled.

"I'm not trying to get at you," Aspen responded nervously. "I just thought you ought to relax."

He dipped forward quickly to kiss him as if it would offer some sort of reassurance, his hand migrating to press against the nape of his neck to ensure that he couldn't pull away. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hoped he had remembered to pull the curtains shut. It didn't last long. Caspian's hands pressed firmly at his shoulders to push him away roughly, looking dismayed and annoyed. He had pegged Aspen for a good number of things, from a cheat to a flirt, but he had always hoped he wasn't a liar.

"I have to go," Caspian remarked curtly, wiping his mouth and walking over to get his coat. "If you're looking to be entertained, I certainly won't be your plaything."

For once, Aspen was at a loss for words, trying to formulate a response that would fix what he regarded as a minor fib. He hated alcohol for the most part - Caspian was right - but he'd been curious and Caspian never had a loose tongue.

"You're not a plaything," protested Aspen, reaching forward again to catch his arm. Caspian batted it away, a warning look in his expression as he fumbled with his coat to slip it on. He muttered a curse under his breath at an upcoming headache, messily pushing blond hair from his eyes.

"If you had just asked," Caspian started bitingly, "I would have answered what you wanted to know."

He didn't let Aspen answer, walking to the door to leave. He braced a hand against the wall before drawing in a deep breath to steady his vision. Not knowing what to do, Aspen gazed at him as he swung the door open to head down the steps and leave.

Only when the door slammed shut did Aspen swear out loud, pressing a hand to his forehead. He didn't understand sometimes why he was often so adept at angering Caspian.

Taking a step back, the backs of his legs hit into the couch, his tie starting to feel like it was constricting him. Hooking his fingers in the collar of his shirt, he tugged on it to loosen it and undo the top button. He shook his head and scanned his pace regretfully. He knew Caspian would come around sometime, but he couldn't help but still feel terrible, which was odd because he rarely felt guilty.

Sitting back down, he sank back into the couch to stare at the ceiling, figuring he'd write him a letter later to apologize.


End file.
